


Chaos Theory

by di0zapeeRc



Series: The Epistemology of Love [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Human, Coming Out, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Graphic Description, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Slow Burn, Suicide, Trans Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-11 08:01:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12930978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/di0zapeeRc/pseuds/di0zapeeRc
Summary: Chaos Theory: scientists' attempt to calculate the incalculable - to expect the unexpected. To quote Vision: "Humans are odd. They think order and chaos are somehow opposites and try to control what won't be." Thematically my story. The tags describe the rest.Expect loads of heartache





	1. Act One: The Other

**Scene One**

I enter to find Mother, Father and my brother seated on the same divan. The gaping curtains cause the white glare from outside to turn my family into nothing but a three-headed silhouette. It makes what I am about to do both harder and easier. Three deep breaths and a focus point just above their heads from which I can still see them peripherally. Feeling rather faint, I decide that it is now or never.

“I have gathered you all to make a rather big announcement. This is not easy for me, so I beg your comprehension and your patience. I will explain to the best of my ability, but you are also free to query anything unclear,” I say, my voice surer than I.

“Equivocation was always your strong suit, Loki. Get on with it,” Thor, my brother, jests.

“Very well. I would like to reintroduce myself to you, my family, as neither your son – nor your daughter. It’s rare, but I am certain as the sky is blue: I belong to neither pole, although both reside in me. The westerners call it ‘non-binary’, which aims to imply that gender exists on a spectrum of which male and female are the directly opposing poles. Please, understand that I am eighteen years of age and have not taken this announcement lightly – I’ve been meaning to make it for two years now,” I finish, my heart beating itself unconscious against my ribcage.

“What does this mean, Loki?” Mother, Frigga, asks, her voice mildly tearful.

“It means I would prefer it if you were to use neutral pronouns for me, Mother. I cannot be the heir you always dreamed of having, but I can be the doting child I’ve always been.”

Thor and Father, Odin, share a look and something hefty passes between them. I steel myself for their response. Mother says nothing further, but stares intently into her lap as if some kind of truth will materialise there.

“If you require further explanation, I am more than hap–”

“No. I feel we’ve heard quite enough from you,” Father interjects. “Loki, there is not a day that goes by where I am not made aware, yet again, how aptly we named you. Nothing is ever in stasis with you, nor are the fluctuations ever within bounds. You wish not to be defined by polar extremes, yet those are all you live by. What say you to this?”

“Father, I understand that it is difficult to grasp, but please have comprehension for how difficult it was for me to come to terms with? It took me all of sixteen years to finally understand this fundamental otherness inside me. I would not wish this kind of bone-deep uncertainty on anyone, but I overcame it and all I ask is that you accept me for who I am – even if you cannot yet understand,” I plead, unable to keep a hint of desperation from my voice.

He glances at Mother, his expression unreadable. Thor regards me rather similarly to a particularly vexing mathematical equation.

“Leave us. You have asked for comprehension – give us time to make work of it,” Father says.

I seem to take one step towards the door before my bed is in sight. Nowhere in this house feels presently friendly.

 

**Scene Two**

“Loki?” Mother’s soft, musical voice finds me in the grips of a panic I have never felt.

I turn my head to face her, but do not rise from my bed. I find I don’t have much control over my limbs at the moment.

“Your father is unhappy,” she shares.

“I gathered as much,” I mutter.

“You were so close to freedom, darling. Why jeopardise that with an announcement of this nature? You know how tenacious your father can be,” Mother plays, what she believes to be, the mediator. Her mediating is never in favour of both parties and is never in favour of me.

“You are my family, Mother. If anyone deserves to know, it’s you. It is not as if this makes me a new person. I am simply giving lip service to who I’ve always known myself to be inside. I do not understand Father’s discontent,” I say.

“He does not understand your continued efforts to thwart him. So, I am inclined to say this makes you even,” she quips.

I could scream in frustration, then.

“This is what none of you have ever understood and I am beginning to lose hope of ever getting through to you: living for myself is not a crime against you! Being myself and doing what brings me happiness is not at your expense. I am allowed to be happy in ways you aren’t. We are not clones of one another: different people have different views and values!”

“And what know you, a child, of views and values? Your sheltered upbringing has brought you nothing but privilege and security. You know not the meaning of suffering and therefore cannot possibly have values as unshakable as you imply. On what do you base them?” Mother counters.

Before I quite know how it happened, there are tears burning their way down my face. I know I have lost the battle and the war looks doomed as well.

“There is no point,” I say and turn my face away from her.

Minutes pass before I hear my door fall shut.

 

**Scene Three**

A week has passed since I came out to my family. The most vocal of my family members has been Thor, who has made me out to be some kind of jest he must bring up continually to alleviate his own boredom. Father has not spoken a word to me all week. Meals are the worst, because instead of just ignoring me, he eats in absolute silence. This means everyone eats in absolute silence, save for Thor who is always trying to lighten the mood by making jokes at my expense.

“Mixter Loki?” our au pair calls from the door of the music room.

I look up and give her a tight smile by way of invitation. I’ve been spending a lot of time at my piano this past week, because music feels like the only thing that makes sense anymore.

“Mixter Loki, you’ve done it!” she says, a letter held aloft.

I take it from her and a relief so genuine washes over me that I am utterly giddy from it. I have, indeed, done it. When it became time to apply for further study, my grades had been of such a nature that I really could apply for any course anywhere. The most prestigious university in the world is tucked away on a secluded mountain terrace, overlooking a great lake. It has always been my dream to go there and immerse myself in the various cultures I have only ever seen in media. I applied for a double major in anthropology and ancient cultures and I have managed to get in! If nothing, Father will most definitely be pleased with this.

“Thank you, Sarah. I needed this today. Father will be most pleased,” I say, wrapping her in a hug.

“I hope he is, dear. The atmosphere in this house has been dreadful all week. I don’t know how much more of it I can take – and it is wearing on you something awful,” she says, her face a mask of concern.

“I will take it to him now. Thanks again!” I say and dash for Father’s study.

Once there, I find myself hesitating. My hand hangs between me and the door, letter clutched tightly enough to puncture the paper with my fingertips. Will Father genuinely be pleased, or is this going to cause further discord? Resolving myself, I knock.

“Frigga?” he calls.

“No, Father. It is I, Loki. I come bearing great news!” I call back.

“What is it, Loki? I am busy,” is his response.

I enter quickly, almost forgetting to slide the door shut again behind me, and go to hand him the letter. His eyes slide emotionlessly over the words. I am honestly prepared to throw myself out of the window, three storeys up, by the time he finally addresses me again.

“You will not be going,” Odin says, his tone final.

“But, Father…”

“My word is my word, Loki.”

“So, all my hard work was for nothing? You placed all of that sickening pressure on me for absolutely no reason? Pressure you never placed on Thor? This is not fair, Father!” I cry, all the pent-up anxiety from the past week spilling down my face.

“I will NOT have you going to the most prestigious university in all the world to besmirch this family’s name with your fantastical nonsense! If you swear off this notion of being 'non-binary' – or however you called it – you have my permission to go. I hold prestige at this institution and serve as a major shareholder and it will not do to have my child causing upheaval,” he finishes, his voice carrying through my veins as if they are the hollow pipes of a church organ.

“But you don’t want me here, either. So, if I am for the axe, then, for mercy’s sake, just swing it, Father. It’s not that I don’t love our little talks, it’s just that…I don’t love them,” I say, my voice taking on a hint of cruelty I could only have inherited from him.

“You…will be the end of me,” Odin says, pressing at his heart. “You and your ungrateful, irreverent cruelty.”

“Well, one can hope,” I say, that cruelty setting into my bones now. I care not for Father’s pain and suffering as I once did. He so clearly does not care for mine. “Why did you ever adopt me, Father? You had the perfect child in Thor. You did not need me. And spare me the “we showed you a great mercy” crap! I was a baby: it would have been just as a great a mercy to let me die.”

“You’ll have to ask your mother that question. She was the one who persuaded me. To this day, I wonder how I let her,” he sneers, his voice strained from the probable erratic beating of his heart. The pacemaker he had installed only solves one half of the problem – it cannot account for his heart arrhythmia. A condition which worsens as he grows more and more upset.

I take my letter from his desk and run from the room. Nearly tripping down the stairs does not stop me from barrelling onwards and out the front door. The bitingly cold, icy, Norwegian air feels oddly soothing on my feverish skin. I know my face has gone blotchy, as it always does when I get angry. I don’t stop running until I am far enough into the forest and up the mountain to render even our mansion and it’s surrounding, expansive grounds invisible. I find my favourite hiding place and fold myself into it.

“Loki!”

Oh, God, what does this oaf want now?

“LOKI!” he calls, loud enough to cause an avalanche.

“Thor, keep your voice down or you will bury the entire house in snow,” I hiss.

At first, he does not see me. I spend a minute amusing myself at his idiotically confused expression. His yellow hair whips this way and that as he looks for any leads as to where my voice could have come from.

“Over here,” I laugh.

His head snaps in my direction and his eyes settle on mine at last.

“How did you get your lanky self small enough to fit into that hole?” he asks, coming to sit just outside my little cave.

“I am not as bulky as you. Compressing myself is easy.”

“You say this with reverence…” he chuckles, dropping his head for a moment. His tangled mop of hair falls forward to hide his face. I used to brush it for him when we were younger, because the knots would pull at his scalp and cause him dreadful discomfort. This has not been custom for years now.

“Why have you sought me, brother? Have you come to gloat? To mock?” I ask, the cruelty still there in my voice. How I hate that it has made me its own this way. Of course, I entirely blame Odin for this. One can only pick up something this expertly when one has experienced it in practice enough times.

“Enough, Loki. No more illusions.”

More tears. I am really starting to hate all these tears. You’d swear I was an infant for all the resolution I have.

“Now you see me, brother,” I choke out, my chin still lifting in some semblance to pride. “Is he suffering?”

“I did not come here to vindicate you. Instead, I offer you the chance of a far richer sacrament,” he says in that voice for which he always mocked me. “Silver Tongue” he and his friends always used to call me, for my talent with crafting requests in such a way that I always got what I wanted. I can hear Volstagg’s voice saying, of my quest to convince Father, “What happened? Silver tongue turn to lead?”

“Go on…” I say.

“I know you seek freedom as much as I do, if not more. You help me escape Mother and Father’s smothering and I will grant it to you,” Thor bargains.

I mull it over for a moment, but eventually must laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. He seeks freedom from his perfect life? He wouldn’t survive out from under our parents for even a week.

At his confused expression, I say, “You must be truly desperate, to come to me for help. What proof do I have I can trust you?”

“Trust my desperation,” he says. “I do, however, have terms.”

“I expected as much. Set them.”

In the end, what they amounted to was that we simply lead entirely separate lives. It helps that we are not related, because we do not share any resemblances, and I can register under a different name. He calls it “breaking all ties with his past life”, but I see it for what it is: humiliation at having me for a sibling.

I care not.

Freedom winks on the horizon.


	2. Act Two: Midgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW// Transphobia

**Scene One**

The apartment my brother and I are to be sharing is rather on the large side. It is Father’s on-campus accommodation for when he is needed at the university. Thor calls it a penthouse, but I am not partial to such lavish notions. We immediately go about splitting the place between ourselves.

Naturally, Thor demands the master bedroom – and what Thor wants, Thor gets. I take the guest room, which is quite a bit smaller, but rather cosy. My massive bed, left over from my rather difficult childhood, about fills the breadth of the long room. I place my desk about midway down the far wall and the other end of the room is converted into a meditation and relaxation area. Father allowed me only one bookshelf’s worth of books, so I packed every volume on witchery I possess and the remaining half a shelf I filled with some of my favourite fictional works. Mother helpfully pointed out that, as there is no such thing as magic, all the books I packed are works of fiction. I burn some incense and light enough candles to successfully illuminate the entire room with the curtains drawn. With the smell of pine and musk filling my senses, I feel at home already.

“Loki, we sho–” Thor starts calling from the lounge, but stops when he steps into my room. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

“I have, yes. I’m rather pleased with how it turned out. The most luck is how my bed fills the width of the room exactly. Did you need something?” I ask, turning away from my small triumph to face him.

His eyes still taking in everything, he says, “We ought to go register while students on campus are still few. Otherwise, we might find ourselves in lines until Valhalla or next semester – whichever comes first.”

“Shall we take the car?” I ask, grabbing my coat off the peg by my door.

“I reckon,” Thor says, pushing hair out of his eyes.

“Thor, I know we’ve not quite seen eye to eye for a while now, but I can help you with your hair, if you like?” I offer, gently.

He has been ill to accept favours or kindness from me since we outgrew each other in adolescence. I’ve always believed it to be the work of his friends. Thor has the potential for great popularity and a bright, adventurous disposition to boot, but I do not and my tendency towards the obscure and mysterious has not put me in favour with those boorish oafs with whom Thor likes to waste his time.

With a sigh, he deposits his mountainous self onto one of the sofas.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

Back in my room, I grab my brush and one of my hair-ties and head back to the lounge. Combing through Thor’s masses of blonde hair is close to a workout, but worth it when it comes out soft and smooth on the other side. I tie it up for him, into a bun on the back of his head. He checks his reflection with the front-facing camera of his phone.

“I appreciate it. The knots have been hurting me again,” he says, quietly.

“Then, let me keep helping you like I used to when we were children. It’s no trouble, brother,” I reply, headed back to my room.

“The only magic I believe in is you. Not Mother nor any of the house women could ever get the knots out without pulling out literal clumps of hair. I will take you up on your offer.”

I smile at him and then we both head for the door.

 

**Scene Two**

Turns out, registering for classes is a quest, regardless of the number of students on campus. I find myself in line after line, anyway, long void of Thor. He is studying theatre, which I think suits him well. He is surely charismatic enough. We are thus in entirely separate faculties, meaning we really will live separate lives. After our moment in the apartment, I will begrudgingly admit that I was a little disappointed by how excited he seemed about this fact when he went off to find the registry for his practical acting class.

Registering for my first class was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, aside from coming out to my family. They asked me to put my preferred details on a form for the lecturer and I just froze.

 _You get to be who you’ve always dreamed of being, Loki_ , my subconscious had whispered to me. _They’re giving you the opportunity to reinvent yourself – to reach your full potential, out from under Odin._

 _But what if Odin finds out somehow?_ I’d warred with myself. _He’s keeping such a close eye on me that he got Thor into the university on no merit of his own. Also, would Thor keep my secret? So far, his jests have seemed mostly harmless, albeit mildly offensive. Do I take the risk? Do I allow myself this?_

“Just so you know, the lecturer’s list is entirely private. It is never disclosed outside the confines of the classroom. It’s also not mandatory. If you’d rather not fill it out now, but wait to speak to the lecturer, that’s cool, too. He’s a cool guy – he’ll understand,” the girl behind the registry booth had said in an unmistakeably American accent.

“T-thank you,” I’d responded, managing to sound distinctly Norwegian in only two syllables.

She’d smiled brightly and I’d moved on, turning up my collar as I went.

Now, I am in the line for my sociology class and I’m regretting not having just taken the plunge. No other class has offered me such an opportunity. What if I just went home and set myself on fire with all those candles in my room?

As usual, the gods are not on my side, either.

“Is it a man or a woman?” a male voice of seemingly Australian origin inquires.

 _Relax, Loki. They probably aren’t even referring to you_ , I tell myself.

“I mean, probably a woman. No man could have a face that naturally smooth,” a girl responds, also Australian.

 _So, they are talking about me_ , I think.

“Aren’t we supposed to, like, ask before we just “assume”, or something?” the man again, his voice far more mirthful than sincere.

“Oi! Person…thingy! Are you male or female?” the woman yells.

Her companion dissolves into laughter immediately. I pretend not to hear them, instead inconspicuously pulling off my knitted hat to let my hair fall forward to hide my face.

“You! Goth-y emo person! You literally just took off your beanie! Are you a man or a woman?” the woman tries again.

“Are you alright?” a very heavy Ukrainian accent pipes up quietly to my right.

A woman not much older than I with long, dark hair and piercing grey-green eyes looks up at me with what can only be described as genuine concern. Her long, leather, red trench coat makes a big statement, but it absolutely suits her.

I nod wordlessly.

“Would you like me to stay with you?” she asks.

Before I have a chance to think about it too much, I say, “Please.”

So, she falls into line beside me, staying close, though making no physical contact. Without any prompting from me, this person appears to have me entirely figured out – like magic, or telepathy.

“Hey, so, your friend doesn’t seem to want to talk to us. So, can you answer our question?” the woman from before asks my new companion, having left her place in line to pursue her sadistic line of questioning. “Is he – I mean, she – or whatever… a man or a woman?”

“That is none of your business,” my companion spits at her. “They do not owe you an answer. You are disrespectful.”

“ _I'm_  disrespectful? _I’m_ not the one avoiding a simple question,” the woman counters.

“It is not simple. You do not understand, but let your entitlement lead you astray. Leave us.” She turns those piercing eyes on the woman in full force. That stare could freeze a cheetah mid-stride.

“I get it now,” the woman says, sounding ominously certain. “You’re a transgender, aren’t you? A woman who wants to be a man? You people just live to overcomplicate things. This was a simple question: you and your gender-bending bullshit are what make it complicated.”

My new friend appears to triple in size next to me, but not in demeanour. Her presence itself just grows, until its bursting at the seems with rage. She lets loose at the woman, mixing English and Ukrainian together until individual words are no longer discernible. The Australian woman looks terrified and I feel a sick sense of glee.

“ _Sestra_!” interjects a male voice.

Seemingly from thin air, a tall, wiry man, with hair pale as frost, appears. He puts a soothing hand on my friend’s shoulder. Her rage leaves almost instantly, but her eyes remain riveted to the Australian woman, a fire still just beneath the surface inside them.

The man murmurs to my friend in Ukrainian for a moment, his tone as soothing as his fingers on her hard face. She closes those powerful eyes and the hardness of her features melts into delicacy. She looks like a porcelain doll with the rouge of anger high on her cheeks.

“You are what is wrong with the world,” she says to the Australian woman, who is still rooted, petrified, to the spot.

This spurs her into action and she backs up before turning away, but not before muttering “psycho bitch” about my saviour. Her male friend makes as if to grab the woman, but somehow I beat him to it.

“I think you owe my friend an apology,” I say.

“I don’t owe her shit. She went off at me. If you had just answered my question, this could have been avoided. Fucking tranny,” she finishes and then tries to shove past me.

“Enough,” the man says. “I am kicking your ass if you say so much as one more disrespectful thing – I do not care if you are a woman. You are a disgusting human-being and the discarded condom I stepped on on my way here is worth more to humanity as a whole than you are. Now, go be extra and insulting somewhere else. You have no powers here.”

The woman stalks off, trying to slam into me purposefully, but I side-step her.

“Thank you,” I say to them both, once the woman is out of earshot.

“She is a… _suka_?” the fierce ice-queen aims the last word at her companion questioningly.

“‘Bitch’,” he translates.

“Bitch,” she agrees.

I smile despite myself.

“Agreed,” I say.

The line finally moves forward. I am, however, myself concerned about the state of the red-coated woman. The delicacy from earlier has since been replaced with fragility and her breathing sounds slightly laboured.

“Are you alright?” I ask her, a frown knitting my brows together.

“ _Brat, ya ne mozhu_ ,” she says to her friend.

He puts his arm around her protectively and the two of them leave the line. Unfathomably, they are gone before I can even turn to follow them with my eyes. I send a prayer of thanks to the gods and keep my head low the rest of the day.

  
**Scene Three**

Walking into my anthropology class has me several different shades of nervous. This is the class for which I passed up the opportunity to re-identify myself. In all fairness to my naturally nihilistic mind, I went all out, regardless.

I found an apothecary not too far from our apartment and they sell cheap, knock-off makeup. I bought enough black eye-shadow to last me my entire university career. I just dampened my fingers slightly and then dipped them in the sooty powder and smudged it round my eyes. I quite like the effect it has on the green of my irises. Cycling to campus called for a French braid, which I tied up by lacing a thick green thread through my hair and knotting it around the tip of the braid. Thor even said he liked it.

“Alright, everyone! Settle down, settle down. I do believe introductions are in order,” Dr. Erik Selvig says, motioning for us all to find a seat. “We’ll take it from my right end of the first row and snake our way back, shall we?”

Most people give fairly generic introductions: their name, age and nationality. Some attempt jokes, at which they mostly fail. Most of us laugh out of respect. I try to smile, at least.

At a point such as this later on, a girl next to me looks me over once and whispers, “You have a stunning smile. You really should do it more often.”

Is this an attempt at courtship? I am flattered. I thank her.

Too soon, it is my turn to introduce myself. I get to my feet shakily. I am almost certain my voice will waver, but I clear my throat quietly and project my voice nonetheless. I used to address important people on my father’s behalf all the time, back home. I was nowhere near as nervous then, though.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Loki Laufyson,” I had registered under my mother’s name. “I am from Norway and I go by they/them for pronouns. Thank you.”

I sit down, fighting the urge to lose consciousness. I cannot believe I just did that. I feel as if I painted a target on my chest.

“Loki? The Norse god of mischief? Tell me, Mixter Laufyson, do your parents have a sense of humour?” Dr. Selvig asks, a small smile on his face.

“I reckon they thought more along the lines of ‘god of chaos’, to be honest,” I reply, at ease by his unceremonious acceptance.

“Funny. You don’t seem that chaotic to me. You look like someone who actually knows exactly who they are,” he says, winks at me and moves on to the girl who had complimented me earlier.

When all introductions are out of the way, Dr. Selvig digs immediately into our semester assignment. We are to do a study of a foreign culture by becoming friends with a student from that culture. When registering, we each had to write down a culture we were most curious about. Mine is America. I have been all over Europe, because our parents believe in broadening our horizons, but America was always painted to be a godless nation of heathens. Something about the reckless abandon with which the country is traditionally paired has always fascinated me.

“Excuse me, sir, but how do we find friends?” one student poses. The class laughs at this, but so does he. “I mean to say, do we have to look up students from our chosen countries ourselves? Is there some way to make that more doable?”

“I am glad you asked!” Dr. Selvig says, clapping his hands together, and heads for the door. He throws it open and exclaims: “Enter, friends!”

A rag-tag group of people file into the room and form an incoherent bundle in front of the lecture podium. Most of them shuffle around and whisper awkwardly to one another, while others stand looking bored and disinterested. One of them, a stout man with dark features and well-groomed facial hair, looks rather amused at being in his current position.

Only to myself will I admit to finding him ridiculously handsome.

“These kind and, understandably, money-hungry souls have volunteered to be paired with each of you and meet up with you for five hours per week to answer any and all questions about their culture you may have and to let you shadow them to make observations. I will call out your name and the soul you’re paired with and you two can leave together and become acquainted,” Selvig explains.

My luck dictates my being called on last, while quite a number of volunteers were stood up by some of my classmates who decided to kick the semester off well.

“Loki Laufyson – Anthony Stark,” Selvig calls out.

Is it dramatic to believe the gods forsook me my entire existence to smile on me in this one moment?

Moving to the fore is the amused man from earlier. He smiles at me brightly, but the amusement is still there, along with mirth bubbling just below the surface. My breath catches in my throat at that smile.

“My luck gets me the goth kid,” he mutters, holding out a hand for me to shake.

I grasp his forearm firmly and he frowns at me.

“Norwegian custom,” I manage, by way of explanation.

“You’re a Norse goth? What, you a witch or something?” he asks, eyebrows nearly level with his hairline.

“Um, yes? Is that…alright?” I ask. “Also, what is ‘goth’?”

“Wild, man. Wild. Walk and talk?” he offers, pointing at the door.

I nod, maybe a tad too eagerly. We leave together, while he peppers with me enough questions to convince me he might be taking this class as well. I likely also fail to hide the eagerness in my voice.


	3. Act Three: The Opposite of Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW//
> 
> Misgendering  
> Transphobia  
> Rape  
> Mentions of an eating disorder

**Scene One**

The next day brings with it my first sociology class of the semester. My eyes rake the crowd for my red caped crusader, but there are so many people filing into the lecture hall that I have no hope of finding her unless I somehow sprouted wings and took a vantage point near the ceiling. I surrender for now and try to find a seat somewhere near the aisle.

“Hello!” I feel the prickle of icy electricity on my skin before I turn to face her.

“I was looking for you,” I admit, while she discards her red coat onto the desk beside her and wraps her scarves tighter around herself.

She’s dressed in layers and layers of black with at least one spindly silver ring on each finger. She pulls her long, dark hair over her left shoulder and I notice her ears also adorn several delicate, silvery trinkets. She is so beautiful. I can’t decide whether I’m wildly attracted to her or want to be her.

“I saw you when I came in behind this big guy, but you did not see me. I couldn’t call loud enough,” she says, smiling at me.

Her eyes change from icy to a lapping lake on an overcast day.

“Well, it’s lovely to have a friend finally. It’s been terribly lonely in all my classes,” I say.

She takes my hand in her warm one and doesn’t let go.

“I understand. I am sorry for leaving you alone in that line again the other day. I am…not well. My brother took me home,” she says, staring at the desk, leagues deep in her mind.

“No apologies necessary. You were there when I needed you. They left me alone when you left. It’s alright,” I try to console. I squeeze her hand lightly.

She smiles at me again. My legs go numb.

“So, the man who came to help you is your brother?” I ask, as the class settles around us.

“Yes. We are twins. He is twelve minutes older. Do you have siblings?”

“An older brother, but he is in his first year here as well. He studies theatre and pretends I don’t exist.”

“Does your family not approve?” she asks.

“Not particularly. Thor – my brother – is only here as a means for my father to keep me in his sights. He’s an important board member here and finds me a stain on the family name. Thor is meant to keep me in my place, but he and I agreed that – for the sake of both our freedom – we’d lead entirely separate lives and he would feed Father false information,” I recount. I have never opened up this much to another human-being. Something about this woman sets me so at ease.

She mutters something in Ukrainian. Then, something appears to dawn on her.

“I never asked your name!” she whispers.

The lecturer has just called for everyone’s attention. She looks rather reluctant to be here. Everyone else, in turn, looks reluctant to be addressed by her.

“Loki Laufyson,” I whisper back. “Yours?”

“Wanda Maximoff. My brother is Pietro. It is absolutely lovely to meet you, Loki,” she says, leans in and kisses my cheek.

Our fingers are still twined under the desk by the time class ends.

 

**Scene Two**

After class, Wanda insists on taking me to meet her brother officially. I unchain my bicycle and have her sit on my handlebars. The trip isn’t that long, but probably would have taken at least ten minutes longer to walk. Halfway there, I spot my American friend, Tony Stark. He gives me a lopsided smile as we glide past.

“Pietro!” Wanda calls, dismounting.

I chain my transportation to a nearby lamppost and join her with her brother. Before I’m even halfway to them, Pietro is on me and pulling me into a tight embrace.

“It is a pleasure to officially meet you. I am trans, like you, except I am solely male. Thank you for making my sister smile,” he murmurs into my ear during the hug.

“It is great to meet you, too,” I say, grinning.

His hair, transitioning from dark roots to far paler tips, makes a rain cloud around his head, which I find most enchanting. He and his sister share eye colour and quite a bit of facial resemblance, if not for his appearing sculpted in contrast with her crafted.

“ _Brate, khto tviy druh_?” Wanda calls to Pietro.

She’s standing next to a stocky man with gelled hair and surprising musculature. I expect Thor would be more impressive in that department, but only because he is overgrown. Norse perfection, my family calls him. Clearly, that perfection does not hinge on, or even include, intelligence.

“Come, Loki. Join us for lunch,” Pietro invites.

We walk back to Wanda and the unknown man.

“Wanda, Loki – this is my new teammate and friend, Clint Barton. He is American and also deaf, so be sure to make clear eye-contact when you speak to him. He can read lips,” Pietro introduces.

Wanda taps his shoulder and then hugs him, saying any friend of her brother’s is a friend of hers. Clint says he’s pleased to meet everyone. I grasp his forearm tightly and introduce myself and he tells me he likes my hair.

“Would it be okay if I invited my friend over to join us as well?” Clint asks, as we all settle under a tree near a basket which Wanda pulls closer.

“Of course,” Wanda says. She’s busy unpacking all kinds of snacks onto a wooden platter. “Is he also from the team?”

“No, she isn’t. She wanted to join, but she kept kicking literally everyone’s asses during try-outs. Coach says she’s bad for team morale. She joined the gymnastics team, instead,” Clint explains.

“Didn’t you say she went to the Olympics for Russia for gymnastics?” Pietro asks, spreading some cream cheese on a biscuit.

“That she did, but don’t let her coach know. She’s changed her name and appearance since then, and really just does sports for the love of them now,” Clint replies.

“Talking about me?” says a female voice, also in an American accent.

She drops to the ground so gracefully, she might have been a dancer. She takes great care to keep in line of sight of Clint. Her hair is shoulder-length and straight and deep red and the eyes behind her glasses are the pale green of daisy stems and, across the bridge of her nose and under her eyes, she has a smattering of freckles that makes her appear even younger than she already is.

“You know, I was beginning to worry Loki would be the only remotely feminine company I would have this year,” Wanda says and holds out her hand to Clint’s friend. “I am Wanda Maximoff, and you?”

The girl grasps Wanda’s hand firmly and says: “Natasha Romanov. It’s cool to meet you all.”

More introductions ensue and afterward Natasha asks me outright what my gender is. I am shocked, but mostly because she didn’t say “are you male or female?”, but “what is your gender?” instead. I try to stifle my absolutely ecstatic grin when I tell her I am non-binary and then my pronouns. Clint takes note of this as well.

“So, Natasha, what is your story, if you don’t kind my asking? Clint says you hail from Russia, but moved to the USA and started over. Did something happen?” Pietro asks.

“I…got in with some bad people. I was in danger and my family was in danger, so they relocated me to America and I met Clint at school. We’ve been inseparable ever since,” she says and smiles over her shoulder at Clint.

“How many years have you been dating?” Wanda asks and hands Natasha a glass of grape juice.

Natasha accepts, but says: “Oh, we’re not dating. We’re family. We grew up together.”

Clint: “She’s like my sister. I love her, but kissing her would just be weird.”

“Plus, I’m gay. Girls only, which is something Barton and I have in common,” Natasha explains.

“You always get the hot girls, though. Like, you’d think being captain of three sports teams and a qualified pilot and an artist would get you the girl, but Nat beats me to them every time. I’m starting to get a complex over here,” Clint recounts, playing wounded.

“Then, it’s great we’re in entirely different fields now. I’ll stick to the nerd girls. You can date the artists,” divvies up Natasha.

“This is all fine and well, as long as you take me along to your faculty parties,” I pipe up.

“That’s it. Now neither of us has a chance, Barton. I can’t compete with that jawline,” Natasha says, gesturing at me.

“You know what, Laufyson? I’ll just date myself,” Clint declares.

“I’ve been doing it for years. It’s not so bad,” I say, grinning.

“I mean, you can’t dump yourself, can you?” reasons Clint.

“No. I _have_ tried,” I mutter.

“So, Loki, where are you from?” Natasha asks, laying back with her head in Clint’s lap.

“Norway. We live in a small town. Nothing special about it,” I say.

Wanda hands me a biscuit covered in cream cheese and I accept it gratefully.

“One of the few languages Natasha doesn’t speak,” Clint comments, grinning down at her.

“Yet,” she amends in response. “I’m sure Loki could teach me. They appear to be fully bilingual.”

“I am still learning certain words. For example, the other day I learnt words like “goth” and “emo”, which I have never heard before, but apparently they pertain to my visage,” I share.

“You know, no one speaks English like that anymore. It’s beautiful,” Natasha notes, staring at nothing, and sighs.

“…Thank you?” I say.

“Who taught you to speak English that way?” she asks.

“It is simpler this way. It translates better into Norwegian. Norwegian is a… _lyrisk_ …language. Uh… Like a song?” I try to explain.

“‘Lyrical’?” supplies Natasha.

“Yes! Very poetic and ancient and so it sounds very formal. Thus, it translates far more understandably into older English,” I finish.

And so it goes. For about a month, things go undisturbed. We meet up for lunch every day under the same tree and each bring our own addition to the picnic. I slowly teach Natasha Norwegian and she gives me tips on how to make my accent sound more English when I speak it. Wanda thinks it dreamy that I not only speak English well, but also sound like a British poet when I do. I live for our sociology classes together.

She lies against my chest now, making notes on her iPad that she always emails me after class, because she lies in the way of my preferred writing hand. I am actually ambidextrous, but we have a system whereby she types up whatever she deems important and I whisper into her ear whatever I think she needs to add as the lecture goes along.

Pietro jokingly calls her my girlfriend. I never correct him.

However, there is also the matter of Tony Stark – who I am almost certain believes I am a woman. A very tall woman, but he does not judge, as he is quite short. The reason I believe this is he has never appeared to show non-friendship interest in anyone other than women and he really likes for us to sit in close quarters in the same booth at the deli we have dinner at three times a week. He tells me all his secrets and I listen eagerly, feeling trusted and appreciated. Tony appears to me to be quite lonely, despite his popularity. He finds his unparalleled intellect (as he calls it, but I have come to realise the truth of this description myself over the past month) more a curse than a blessing. His father expects so much of him and, subsequently, he expects so much of himself. He, too, is from a wealthy family, with a mother who would also sooner perish than stand by anyone but his father. I relate to him in ways I’ve yet to mention. In fact, we do not discuss me much. I don’t mind. No one has ever chosen me as a confidant before and my current relationship with Tony has been fantastic for my anthropology assignment – not that I tell him this. I do not want to lose his friendship because he might feel like I would divulge his secrets.

He also…

Well, he also calls me “gorgeous” sometimes…

…and courts me shamelessly, to which I do not respond as I find it far too overwhelming.

And because I think I might genuinely be developing feelings for Wanda.

This does not cross my mind when I take Wanda home one Thursday evening to study for our sociology mid-semester test.

“Loki, your apartment is lovely,” she says, eyes wide and taking everything in.

“I find it rather ostentatious,” I say, smirking, not for the first time, at how non-Norwegian I sound as of late, “but thank you.”

“Are we studying here?” she asks, making her way to the lounge.

“I was thinking my bedroom might be more comfortable. My brother will probably chase us out as soon as he comes home, to watch television. I figure in my room, we can spread out to our heart’s content and be as comfortable as we like.”

“Sounds good to me,” she says, smiling at me.

I offer to make us some tea and she accepts. She takes her bookbag off her shoulder and sets it down on the island in the kitchen, while I put the kettle on the stovetop. Along with her bookbag, she discards the massive red scarf she wore around her body today and removes the chopsticks from her hair, causing it to cascade down her back.

Admittedly, I developed a taste for sheer clothing from seeing how she pulls it off so stunningly. Today, she’s wearing a sheer dress that starts midway down her neck with a ruffled collar and sweeps down to the floor, with skin-tight sleeves that end midway down her forearms. The dress is fitted and entirely transparent, but she’s wearing tasteful, concealing, black underwear underneath and thigh-high black boots. Leather straps connect the pantyhose she’s no doubt wearing under the boots with the high-waist undergarment. Her bra is strapless. I would repossess that dress.

Handing her a mug of tea, I nod in the direction of my room. She leads the way, coming to a halt in the doorway. Thoughtlessly, I snap my fingers and all the candles in the room blaze to life.

“ _Miy bozhe, yak ty tse zrobyv_?” Wanda says, sounding in awe.

“Um…” I say.

“ _Vybacthe_. I mean, sorry. Loki, how did you do that?” she asks, turning to me, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her eyes look like a stormy sea.

I smirk at her surprise.

“I am a witch,” I say, simply.

“A… _witch_? There is no such thing,” she says, disbelief etched into every line of her perfect face.

“You say this after just witnessing magic with your own eyes.”

I move past her to the back end of my room. One of the big cushions on which I enjoy sitting to read is off in the corner. I envision it moving to a more useful spot on the rug and it heads there of its own volition.

“No! Loki, this is not Godly. How is this possible?” Wanda demands. She has not moved an inch closer, looking intensely fearful.

“It’s not Satanic. In Norway, the old gods are still worshipped to this day, albeit by very few. If prayed to properly, they grant us power. No one adheres to the old rituals anymore, as most of Norway has become rather westernised and instead pray to your Christian God. I reverted to the old rituals a long time ago and, in turn, the gods grant me some power. I can’t perform miracles or anything, but simple tricks like lighting candles or shifting pillows are well within my abilities,” I explain, further preparing our study area.

“It’s just that you called yourself a witch, and in Christianity witches are Satanic in their power,” she says, moving slowly over to me now.

“Witches in my culture are the holy ones of old. They had a special connection to the gods. Besides, Christiany just rebranded most of our holidays in its name and favour, anyway. The sole differences between your faith and mine are the stories, and your belief in a single god, as opposed to my many,” I say.

I turn to face her once more. Her eyes search my face, for some hint of mirth, I suspect. Finding none, she removes her boots and takes a seat on one of the pillows. I unlace mine as well and grab a fistful of my skirt to make sitting down easier.

The next three hours are spent reading through our notes and explaining concepts to each other and reminding each other of lecture content. We make quite a team and are about finished with the work when Thor crashes through my door.

“Lo–” he begins, but halts with his eyes on Wanda. “When you told me of your friends, brother, I had assumed them to be as queer as you – but she is beautiful.”

I roll my eyes at the misnomer and glare at him.

“Loki?” says Wanda, looking from me to Thor. I realise two things, then: first, that Wanda has no idea who the strange man on my threshold is, and, two, that she cannot understand Norwegian – the only language in which Thor and I communicate, because Thor’s English is elementary at best.

“Wanda,” I say, in English and in my best English accent, “this is my older brother, Thor. Thor, this is my friend, Wanda Maximoff. She is Ukrainian. We communicate in English.”

He makes a big show of coming in to kiss her politely outstretched hand. I notice her shudder visibly – and her face reveals that it is not in any way pleasurable.

“My English is not as good as my brother’s,” Thor says, smiling his oafish smile.

Wanda’s jaw works distastefully.

“Neither is your common decency,” I say to him, my eyes flashing him a warning.

“Are you wearing a dress?” Thor laughs at me.

“I happen to think they look gorgeous,” Wanda assesses, crossing her arms defiantly in front of her chest and hitting him with the full force of her freezing gaze. I feel a small twinge of remorse in my chest at that word.

“I was wrong. She is like you,” he retorts in his broken English.

I have had just about enough of his malevolence and take a deep breath, grabbing onto the large crystal I carry around my neck. The next moment, Thor is being flung from the room, eyes wide in shock. The door slams shut behind him. I lock it, for good measure.

She turns back to me, her face a mask of worry.

“Wanda, I’m fine. I promise you, I’m alright. I take nothing that idiot says seriously,” I try to calm the turmoil in her eyes.

She pulls me to her by the hand, regardless. We share an embrace and she kisses my temple. Her hair smells like burning flowers and I have a powerful urge to kiss her, as well. She ends the embrace before I have an opportunity to act, but takes my face in her hands.

“You should not have to be okay. People like you and Pietro – you should not have to live the way you do: making excuses for your pain. He is _suka_ , too,” she says, tears welling up in her eyes like waves threatening to break.

I smile at this.

“And the saddest part is he thinks he’s being clever,” I say, looking at the delicate tattoo on her inner forearm to keep myself from crying, as well.

She grumbles something in Ukrainian, letting go of my face. She is so fiercely beautiful. I could kiss her right now. I want to kiss her. I’ve been wanting to for weeks. I steel myself and start leaning in –

Right as my phone begins to ring.

Tony Stark’s face flashes on my screen. Wanda notices and frowns deeply.

“How do you know Tony Stark?” she asks me.

“Anthropology,” I say and answer the call – the small twinge from earlier turning into a hurricane. Wanda deserves better than this. “Hello, Tony.”

“Gorgeous!” he answers.

I want to die.

“Is everything alright?” I ask. He sounds drunk and as if he’s at a party of some sort, because it is very loud on his end of the line. I hear someone calling for him on the other end, but he ignores them.

“Are you presently occupied?” he asks, poking fun at my register.

“Studying for my sociology test tomorrow. Why? Tony, do you need aid?” I ask, rising to my feet.

“Somewhat. I mean, I kind of just need to see you. It’s been…”

“Wild?” I offer.

“Wild,” he agrees. “Can you please come get me? Please? I don’t think I can drive right now.”

My eyes find Wanda’s and my heart rips free from my chest and tears itself apart in my mind.

“Alright. Can you text me the address?”

“Sure thing. And Loki?”

“Yes, Tony?”

“Thanks.”

He hangs up.

“Tony Stark is in your anthropology class?” Wanda persists, also having gotten up.

“No. He is a foreign volunteer. I was paired with him to gather enough information to write an analysis of American culture,” I recount, lacing my boots back up.

“And he is…respectful?” she continues her interrogation.

“Sort of. It is–”

“Complicated?” she snorts derisively.

I stop with what I am busy and give her a questioning look.

“Tony Stark cares for no one but himself. He will use you, like he uses everyone else. You are a stepping stone to a larger goal to him, Loki. Surely you are not this foolish?” she says, venom dripping from her every word.

“What has he done to make you despise him so?” I ask.

“He bullies Natasha. He calls her fat, ugly, worthless, unintelligent – whatever it takes to ensure that he remains the best in his course. He treats women like garbage – he will treat you no differently.”

“Wanda, you understand not how it is for him. He is under immense familial pressure. If he does not remain the best, his father punishes him awfully,” I say.

“You would defend to me the man who is single-handedly responsible for Natasha’s imminent demise? She does not eat, she does not wear her glasses, she does not sleep – all in an effort to prove him wrong, because he echoes her pain,” Wanda says, outright disgusted.

“I am not defending him. I am merely explaining that he, too, has pain,” I say.

“Natasha does not bully anyone because of hers. Can you say the same for your precious Stark?” she sneers.

“Everyone is different. He probably does not mean what he’s saying. He talks to me, Wanda. He hates himself for all he must do to remain worthy in his father’s eyes. I’m certain I could persuade him to stop his victimisation of Natasha. He just has to be made to see how his words affect her,” I attempt to reason.

“He is not blind. He knows exactly what he is doing, but it does not matter to him. As long as he is not the one in pain, he has no problem causing it for others. Run after your Stark, Loki. I am going home. Thank you for the tea,” she says, gathering her books.

“Wanda, please? I am just taking him home and then I’ll be back.”

“I’ll hopefully be medicated and in bed by then,” she says.

With a last look at me, she slings her bag over her shoulder and sweeps out of the room. In the kitchen, she pins her hair up again and wraps her scarf around herself. Then she’s out the door and I suddenly feel this hollowness in my chest that threatens to tear me open.

 

**Scene Three**

“Your friend finally come to her senses about associating with you?” Thor asks as I make to leave.

“Thor, could you find, for once in your pointless existence, some damn self-restraint? She and I had a bloody disagreement. We’ll work it out. At least I’ve made friends with which to disagree. I never see you with anyone,” I say, cruelly.

His face darkens and his eyes lose their amused spark. I’ve crossed a line, I know, but I care not. Why can’t he just shut up? I do not mock him as he does me.

“You mind your words with me, brother. I am not beyond putting you in your place,” he warns.

“I am NOT your damn brother. I invite you to attempt disciplining me tonight, you brutish oaf. I am angry and you will come sorely second,” I challenge.

“How did you do that earlier? What force threw me from the room?” he demands.

“It was I. You and Mother and Father can laugh all you like – magic is very real. So, test me tonight. I am not in the mood for your idiocy.”

I head for the elevator door. He does not attempt to stop me.

On the way down to the garage, I type the address Tony had sent me into my navigation app. The drive is not long and Tony is waiting for me on the sidewalk. I roll down the window and call out to him. When he sees me, a genuine smile breaks out across his face. He gets to his feet and falls all over himself to get into the passenger seat.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he says before dragging on a cigarette I had missed him having.

“Do I drive you home?” I ask flatly, putting the car in gear.

“Um, would you mind driving me to the campus clinic, beautiful?” he slurs, opening his window to let the smoke out. “Just need to get something checked. No big deal.”

“Did something happen at the party?” I query, gently.

“Yes, but really nothing you need concern yourself with. I’ll be fine. It really isn’t anything that hasn’t happened before,” he says, but this in no way sets my mind at ease.

He flicks his spent cigarette out the window and pulls a pack out of his jeans pocket. When he’s ready to light one, he appears not to have a lighter.

“You don’t happen to have a light, do you?” he asks.

I snap my fingers and the tip of his cigarette glows red. This sobers him slightly, which, admittedly, is for what I was hoping. He sits up further and his eyes lose their glaze. A quick glance to my left reveals a shadow to be a bruise ringing most of his neck. His lip is also split.

“Tony, what exactly happened to you? Do not tell me not to worry. You look like you’ve been in a fight – and if this is a frequent occurrence for you, we’ll need to revise your extracurriculars,” I say.

For a while, he does not answer. I am too intent on driving the winding road up the mountain to the clinic, to pay him my full attention. I eventually figure he must not want to discuss his evening and resign myself to remaining uninformed. He only called me out of my studying to pick him up at a party, when he could have just as easily phoned for on-campus transit, but why does any of that entitle me to some genuine reassurance? I fought with my best friend, for goodness’ sake. He is unaware of this, I know, but this Tony-centric friendship is becoming quite draining.

“I was raped,” he blurts, causing me to jump in my seat.

“You were… _what_?” I say, speeding up for good measure.

“I got really drunk with my friend who doesn’t drink, scared him off by forcing girls at him and the next moment I’m gasping for air, naked, on a strange bed. I’d gotten mixed up with this couple who wanted a threesome and I don’t remember whether I agreed or not, but he fucked me and fucked me up while he did, while she covered as much of me in cuts and bruises as she could. So, if you must know, I need to go the clinic to make sure I didn’t contract any STDs and, most importantly, to make sure I didn’t suffer any permanent damage…down there,” he finishes, staring through his window.

I say nothing. I know not what to say. What I know for certain is that knew I the identities of these two people, I’d make them beg for mercy. They’d rue the day they met each other, let alone me. I have never been this blindingly angry in my life. I cannot begin to imagine through what Tony is going.

Wait.

“You said, when you got into the car, that this is not the first time something like this has happened…”

“No, it’s not. I…don’t really handle my booze all that well, but mainly because I can never stop once I start. So, I’m a mess and I must look pretty unimposing, being as small as I am, and drunk to boot. I can’t really blame them – I flirt enough to make them believe I want it. Sometimes, even I believe I want it, but my biggest dream is to be conscious even once,” the wistfulness in his voice is heart-breaking.

There is open parking right by the entrance of the building and I take it. Otherwise, I sit frozen in my seat. Tony does not move beside me, either, instead pulling out another cigarette. I help him out with a light again.

“You gotta teach me to do that. I’d never need to buy or borrow another lighter again,” he says.

“It is not that simple,” I mutter. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“If you want…” he says, offhandedly. Then, he sighs. “Would you, please?”

Turning to face him, I say, “Of course.”

He takes my hand, twining our fingers together the way Wanda loves. I resist the urge to cross my arms in front of my chest in an effort to keep it from opening wide enough to swallow me whole.

“I have no clue what, but I must’ve done something right to meet you,” he murmurs into the heavy air between us. “God knows, I don’t deserve you – doubt I ever will – but you are honestly the best person I have ever met. Gorgeous inside and out. Please, stop me from monologuing at any time.”

We grin at each other. Admittedly, a battered Tony is a sexy Tony. My breathing cuts out without warning when he leans forward as if to kiss me. My mind fills with the memory of being in the same position with Wanda earlier. Beautiful, stunning, loving, loyal Wanda.

Then, “Do you know a Natasha Romanov?”

He blinks dazedly for a moment and then refocuses on me.

“Romanov? Yeah, I know her. We study together. Absolute genius – absolute knockout. Why?”

“She and I are friends,” I manage, not really knowing how to properly express myself.

“Okay?”

“Tony, she is unwell. Quite so, actually. She says it is your doing. I mean, she does not actually blame you, but you are hurting her with your treatment of her.”

He shakes his head in disbelief and stares through the windscreen for a moment.

“Is this really relevant right now?” he asks, sounding agitated.

This angers me slightly.

“If you are hurting my friends, then it is very relevant, regardless of the time I choose to bring it up,” I reply, frowning.

“Well, personally, I feel like she isn’t cut out to be here. She can’t take healthy competition and is far too emotional for our line of work,” he shares.

“By “healthy competition” do you mean your constant, unwarranted, harsh criticism?” I ask, cruelty possessing me once again.

“That’s part of rivalry, babe. I tried to be her friend first, but she shot me down, saying she has enough friends and that I wasn’t her type otherwise. She started it and she is just as guilty as I am,” retaliates Tony, letting the smoke roll freely out of his mouth and nostrils.

“Natasha has quite a knack for detecting insincerity. Your motives for friendship were most likely impure and she knew that. None of this is remotely a justification for your treatment of her,” I fume, grinding my teeth together to remain as civil as possible. “She’s starving herself, Tony. She’s blinding herself. She is not sleeping and divides her time solely between her coursework and gymnastics – taking only a one hour break every day to join us for lunch, conspicuously not eating anything anyone gives her, but passing it off to Clint.”

I am recalling all of the signs I have been overlooking over the past month. Natasha always looks well put together and relaxed. I am certain hardly anyone else realised there is something amiss. Wanda is just very attentive of these things, which is most likely the psychology student in her.

“It’s not my fault she can’t take the heat, Loki. I can’t be held responsible for someone else’s weak character. It’s like I said: she’s just as guilty of mudslinging as I am, the only difference being I don’t go home and cry my eyes out about it. This is the real world and she’s a big girl. She needs to grow up and fast, or she’s going to fall even further behind than she already is,” is Tony’s response.

It boils over, then. I cannot prevent it from taking me over any longer. Not after this egregious blame game Tony is playing with someone as fundamentally insecure as Natasha. Something happens to you to make you that doubtful of yourself – something you cannot just repress and from which you cannot just move on. Exploiting someone’s weaknesses like this – and then blaming them for having those weakness in the first place – is calculated and cruel.

And cruelty is rather a forte of mine.

“I saw a kindred spirit in you, Stark, but no longer. The cruelty my father showed me did not turn me into a monster – not like you. No amount of pain and suffering in the world can justify you imposing that same treatment onto another. Natasha does not deserve this. To put it into words you will understand: what you’re doing to her is _fucked up_. It is _abuse_. I will not be privy to this any longer,” I say, looking defiantly away.

It is quiet for a beat.

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“I am saying: get out of my car and misplace my number – unless you are willing to admit to your wrongdoing and apologise to her,” I set my ultimatum.

His response is to get out and slam the door shut. I do not wait for him to enter the building, but restart the car and speed off home.

I refrain from smashing my en suite mirror, when I see the black tracks my tears had run down my face.

I refrain.

But only just.


	4. Act Four: Eyes Wide Shut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW//
> 
> Transphobia  
> Suicidal urges  
> Mentions of alcoholism  
> Abuse  
> Suicide

**Scene One**

Showing up for lunch today is a feat for which I have prepared for for over a week since Wanda left my apartment. I needed to be certain of what I wanted. You’d think it to be simple: Tony showed no remorse for his treatment of Natasha. As genuine as he seemed before then, I am not someone that exists solely to lick his wounds or vindicate him. While preparing myself for this day, I kept seeing those soft eyes of his when he told me he does not deserve me. He is right. He technically signed on to be my friend, but Wanda and Pietro and Clint and Natasha all chose to spend time with me. Wanda is right, as she tends to be.

“Hello,” I say, standing uncomfortably just out from under the tree’s shade.

It is a brilliant autumn day and I have been wearing sunglasses all morning. My eyes have always been too sensitive to stark light. Curse that adjective.

“What do you want?” Wanda spits in my direction, but does not look at me.

“ _Sestra, day nam Loki shans_ ,” says Pietro, reasonably.

Clint and I both look uncomprehending and so Natasha translates.

“You have one chance to explain yourself,” she says, then switches tones. “Convince me why I shouldn’t kick your ass right here and now, because you can bet your last eyeshadow I kicked Wanda’s for talking about that with you.”

“I was wrong,” I start off.

“Damn straight, you were,” interjects Clint. He claps Natasha on the back in a brotherly fashion. She smiles at him appreciatively.

“I confronted him. He admitted to everything, but was entirely unapologetic. He cared not about the effect he has on you, Natasha. He even blames you for being affected in the first place. I expected for him to be unaware, because he also has impossible standards to meet, and remorseful, but my initial judgements of him were mistaken. I am truly sorry to you all – and especially to you, Natasha,” I say. I had no idea this would be so difficult and am choking back tears by the end.

Natasha gets to her feet, graceful as always. The swatch of stomach visible between the waistband of her trousers and the hem of her cropped hoodie is nothing but taut, toned muscle. Her skin stretches over it palely and slightly yellow. Her hair is maintained, but lacklustre and her eyes are unfocused and bloodshot, her glasses nowhere to be seen. How did I miss this? What kind of self-absorbed monster am I?

“Thank you,” she says and hugs me. “I’m sorry he used you the way he did. He can be pretty charming, I know.”

“Surface pleasantries. You are my friend. I’m sorry I didn’t see you the way I should have,” I say into her hair.

Pulling back, she says quietly, “Even Clint didn’t. Wanda was the first to notice. I was doing my best to hide it from you all.”

“We’re here for you, beautiful Nat. Let us help, alright? Whatever you need. I don’t know if Wanda mentioned it to you, but I am a bit of witch – the non-Satanic kind – and I might have some homeopathic remedies that can help with anxiety and such,” I offer, holding her hands.

“Norwegian witches are sacred, right? I’ve been researching your culture while you’ve been teaching me your language,” she says, smiling. Her teeth are yellowing slightly. “I’d appreciate any help I can get, short of going to see one of the campus counselors."

“We’ll work out a schedule of some kind. On the evenings you do not have gymnastics, you can come do your coursework at mine and I can realign your energy little by little.”

We sit down again. I purposefully put Pietro between Wanda and I, not really knowing what to expect from her just yet. Her aura is no longer pulsating angrily, but she does not seem particularly welcoming, either. Pietro is friendly enough, but mildly strained in his efforts. I do not blame him. His sister comes before anyone else, and rightly so. Regardless of all this, I am handed food just like everyone else, and my addition to the meal is accepted, just like everyone else’s.

We are discussing Clint’s history in archery (the discussion had stemmed from a scar that blossoms like a flower across the palm of his left hand and is mirrored on the back), when two men of impressive stature, holding hands, come to a halt at our party.

Is there no shortage of moderately handsome, well-built men on this campus?

“Noobs! I see your names are on the list for uniform duty this week,” one of them – fair-haired, blue-eyed and with a blindingly white, infectious smile – booms in an American accent.

“Our names are on that list every week,” Clint says, not meeting the man’s eyes.

“Sounds right,” the blonde man’s companion – raven-haired, silvery-blue-eyed and cocky-looking – says. The cockiness becomes him, however, in a way it never did Thor, for example. It’s a cockiness stemming from confidence, and not from superiority – in other words, he does not seem mean-spirited.

The blonde nods at his partner, grinning wryly.

“If you do a good job this time, we might let you play this weekend. The team coming always has major fanfare, but they’re never a match for us. Even you two couldn’t blow this win,” says the blonde.

“Much appreciated, sir,” says Pietro, eyes also on the ground.

“Always fun chatting, gents,” says the dark-haired one. “Ladies…”

He squints at me.

“Neither,” I offer.

“Interesting company you two keep,” the blonde says, smiling at me.

The two of them traipse off, clasped hands swinging between them.

“Who…” I start.

“…are they?” Wanda finishes.

“I have told you about them,” Pietro says to Wanda. “The blonde one is Steve Rogers.”

“The team captain?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“The other one is James Buchanan Barnes, his boyfriend and deputy captain. Calls him Bucky,” Clint explains. “Everyone on the team calls them “Cap” and “Barnes”.”

“And you have to wash their uniforms for a chance to play?” Natasha asks, playing with an uneaten apple.

“I don’t know what more we must do. We have had those uniforms spotless and patched up every weekend since the semester started and it has never been good enough,” Pietro vents.

“It is for them that I scrubbed my hands raw?” Wanda asks, fiery temper sparked once again.

“ _Tak_ ,” says Pietro, pulling out some grass listlessly. 

The cogs in my head turn at an alarming speed, churning out quite an ingenious plan.

“Do either of you know what they like to drink pre-match?” I ask.

Clint and Pietro look at each other and similar smiles break out across their faces.

“Banana protein shakes,” they chorus.

“Then, this weekend, you will take them each a banana protein shake – of my making,” I say, “and all of us will be coming to support you.”

“What are you planning?” Wanda asks, amusedly suspicious.

“Nothing harmful, I assure you. Let’s call it reverse Felix Felicis,” I say.

Everyone gets my reference – except Clint. He looks to Natasha for help, but she just tells him to trust me. This is enough for him.

 

**Scene Two**

The week speeds by after that day, what with things returning to normal. Wanda and I are back on good terms and our sociology routine has recommenced. Today, Clint had joined us, as he has a week off for studio time to work on his final artwork, which he’s finished with already. He says he cannot function in an art space he has to share with someone else and they cannot book individual studio time. So, he finished his project last weekend at the campus housing he shares with Natasha. She spent the weekend at Wanda and Pietro’s, letting Wanda feed her until she was satisfied Nat had had enough.

We are leaving class, the bag of lacrosse uniforms slung over my shoulder, as Clint is overladen with art things and I wouldn’t dream of letting Wanda carry this weight. I have Ancient Cultures next and Wanda is headed to the library to pick up a book they’re saving for her that her arch-rival, Bruce Banner, has finally brought back. Clint is coming with me to Ancient Cultures, where he can sketch in peace. The stairwell is filling with people and so Clint switches off his hearing aids and takes them out, letting them hang round his neck.

At the bottom of the stairs, we collide with none other than Tony Stark himself. He looks haggard, to say the least. His usual expensive minimalist look now just looks like he’s spent a full week in a ten-year-old pair of jeans and shirt, both of which are covered in motor oil and grease.

“Loki,” he says, his eyes soft again. A line of glue glimmers on the bridge of his nose, sealing a cut there.

“Who’re you?” Clint asks, narrowing his eyes at Tony.

Tony affords him a brief glance, but does not answer him.

I lay a hand gently on Clint’s shoulder, so as not to startle him. He meets my eyes.

“This is Tony Stark and he has no business being so far into enemy territory. Can you please walk Wanda to the library? I’ll see you both later,” I say to him.

He nods and reaches for Wanda’s hand. She has an ugly expression on her face, colour high on her cheeks and her jaw set painfully. Before they leave, I put an arm around her shoulders and my mouth to her ear.

“It’ll be alright. I’m just trying to prevent a scene. I’ll see you at lunch.”

She nods, rises onto her toes and kisses my cheek.

As they pass Tony, Clint steps towards him and shoves him against the wall, where he pins the smaller man and lifts him off his feet. Tony appears only mildly curious. Clint growls at him.

"I'm leaving with Wanda now, because Loki asked, but if you hurt them at all - I'm ending your shit. We clear? You already fucked with my sister. I won't let you hurt anyone else."

Tony raises his eyebrows patronisingly. "You done?"

Clint drops him, lets go of Wanda's hand and lands a blow right in Tony's stomach. Then, he and Wanda leave into the autumn sunlight.

““Enemy territory”?” Tony says, heaves out.

I move for the door and he follows.

“Well, clearly no one here is a friend to you, Stark. I’ve handed in my assignment. I have no more need of your services,” I say.

I slip my sunglasses on and head for where I’ve chained my bicycle. The sun is bright, but there is no heat accompanying it. I’m wearing tight black jeans, black boots, an overlarge black, long-sleeved shirt, a black scarf and my favourite long black trench coat from home. My hair is a messy bun in the nape of my neck, as it is not the cleanest and I had overslept this morning. 

“So, all our talks up until now mean nothing to you? All those dinners and whispered conversations – nothing?” he asks, a note of pleading in his voice.

I wish he can see me roll my eyes behind my sunglasses.

As it is, I say: “Are you referring to the one-sided emotional baggage dump to which you subjected me, while never once asking me how I am or learning anything about me?”

This brings him up short. I lock my chain around a non-cumbersome part of my bike and mount it.

“Loki, I’m sorry.”

My head drops to my chest. He sounds it. He sounds miserable. I cannot do this. I cannot get caught up this way – not when, just last night, I heard Natasha vomit up the slice of toast I gave her when she came over for her energy realignment. Not when Thor and his guest were then heartless to her about it. Some conventionally pretty little thing in a tiny dress and too much makeup. Not to mention, she was wearing a wedding ring, as far as I could tell. This is all far too much. I am spreading myself too thin.

“Brother!” comes a booming voice from behind me.

I bite down subconsciously and sink my teeth into my tongue, hard. My mouth fills with blood instantly. What is he doing here? This is the sciences side of campus. The arts side is kilometres away.

“So am I,” I say to Tony, kick away from the pavement and pedal to my next class.

The path I am cycling along banks to the left and I gain a better vantage point of the scene I left behind. Thor had not stopped to speak to Tony, which I am ridiculously relieved about. However, he is with the woman again, who is dressed utterly inappropriately for the temperature.

I shake my head to myself and speed up to make it to my next class in time.

For someone who wanted to lead entirely separate lives, Thor enjoys hounding me.

After Anthropology, I opt for cycling to the nutrition centre and picking up something to add to our lunchtime picnic. Oversleeping this morning ruined literally everything. However, like a piece of sticky tape that just keeps finding other parts of you to stick to when you try to rid yourself of it, Tony is waiting for me outside again.

“I did not even hint earlier, Stark. Leave me be. I have nothing further to say to you,” I say, getting on my bike and cycling away.

Rhythmic pounding on the pavement alerts me that he is, in fact, running after me. Should I get Clint to scare him off?

“Please, Loki!” he calls, not even that breathless.

I am starting to become frustrated. I pedal faster. He runs faster, as well. It is when everyone in the area has stopped to stare at us that I brake and dismount. He comes to a halt beside me, shirt in hand to be used as a sweat rag. Dampness glistens on his tanned skin, somehow emphasising his phenomenal shoulders. On his lower abdomen, a bruise is forming. A vein is pounding in his neck in tandem with his now laboured breathing.

 _What if I sucked on it?_ my brain tantalises me.

To quote Thor’s favourite phrase: _Oh, fuck off._

“Thank you for stopping. I’m not unfit, but I haven’t eaten anything today and so probably wouldn’t have been able to go much longer. Not that I would’ve stopped – unless I lost consciousness from low blood sugar. You’d have stopped then, right? I mean, I couldn’t blame you if you didn’t, but I like to think you wouldn’t just leave me passed out on the walkw–”

“Tony!” I interject, loudly enough for close-by heads to snap to attention. “I stopped, because people were staring and I was embarrassed. Now, give me one good reason I should not call campus security and have you detained.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh? I mean, we had a falling out. People fight all the time without the cops having to be involved. On what grounds would you have them detain me, anyw–”

“I’m leaving,” I say and move to get back on my bike.

“Hey! I admit it! My fault! Sorry. I’m piping hot mess. Nothing’s been the same since I met you,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

I see the goose bumps race tracks across his skin from the cold. Slipping off my coat, I drape it over his shoulders. He looks up at me gratefully, pulling it tighter around himself.

“I’ve experienced things with you that I can’t explain – things I’ve never experienced with anyone else. Acceptance, understanding, caring… The only reason I’ve gotten as far as I have this year, is probably because I met you,” he continues.

Heat starts to rise in my neck. I try to pull my scarf tighter around it inconspicuously.

“Which has been great! I… _I'm so into you_. I’m lucky, but, gorgeous, I can’t sleep,” he says.

Through my complete and utter inability to cope with how he just told me he  _wants_ me, I distantly register the truth of his final statement. He looks like he’s been awake for weeks, working with who-knows-what on the-gods-know-what. He’s covered in scrapes and bruises and his eyes look unnaturally sunken and wide and haunted. He’s probably been dosing himself with enough caffeine to send a rocket into space.

“After our dinners, you go home and I go to the robotics lab – I do what I know: I tinker,” he sighs, some of the tension draining out of his shoulders. “My father could decide at any minute to pull me out of here and so I have to work at staying near the one thing I can’t live without – that’s you.”

My breath dies in my chest. I can feel myself being suffocated by all the emotion inside me presently, but I am too overwhelmed to know how to deal with it. What registers first and foremost is crippling self-loathing.

Predictably, I cry.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Tony says, closing the gap between us and putting his hands to my waist.

How do I tell him? How do I possibly explain that the only times my family shows any inkling of want for me is when I adhere to their notions of normalcy? Especially since he presently believes I am doing just that for him.

How do I explain that I want to be normal? That I have been so miserable for so long that all the love and acceptance in the world cannot make me accept myself as I am. I want to look myself in the face daily and not feel lacking. I want to fall asleep at night and not dream of Odin, beating me bruised and bloody for putting on Frigga’s clothes, pand Frigga taking his side and blaming me for being bedbound for most of my childhood. I want to comfortably resent Thor for turning out to be such a disappointing adult, but I cannot so long as I still have memories of him crawling into bed with me after a beating and holding me until I had cried myself unconscious.

I cannot be with Tony. I can resent him all I like – at the risk of being a hypocrite – for never asking me to open up to him, but I could never burden him with something like this. I could never face seeing rejection in his eyes.

No, I am far better off having whatever I have with Wanda. If he would rather we were nothing if we could not be lovers, then that is what I deserve.

At this point, I am gasping for air with my forehead on his bare shoulder, my head bowed under my coat. He has our bodies pressed together and is whispering consolations and reassurances into my ear, his thumb tracing soothing patterns on the side of my face. I break the embrace and swipe miserably at my eyes. The tears stop, but my face is still wet. I care not for the moment. With every last ounce of strength I can manage, I focus on Tony.

“Tony, we cannot be together. I am so sorry. I can offer you friendship, but nothing more,” I say, my voice monotonous to keep from cracking with emotion.

He searches my face, trying to find some kind of clue as to why I am saying what I am. All the tension leaves him, then. It leaves him deflated and hollow and he suddenly looks every bit as tired as he no doubt is. His gaze falls to his shoeless feet.

“I understand,” he says, eyes to the ground. “I just…I don’t think I can be just friends with you.”

I take a deep breath.

“I understand, as well,” I say, managing only just to keep the tears from spilling over once again.

He shrugs off my coat and hands it back to me.

“No. Keep it until you’ve had a shower, at least,” I decline, pushing it back at him.

“I, uh…I’d rather not have something that reminds me of you, if it’s all the same to you,” he says. He is still not meeting my eyes.

“Of course. Sorry,” I say and take the coat.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath – and then we finally lock gazes.

“Goodbye, Loki,” he says.

“G-goodbye.”

My tears shatter the scene into a million fragments, and so I do not see him leave.

 

**Scene Three**

“Sometimes, magic is not the solution. In those cases, you trust in the power of good skincare products and the combined resourcefulness of me and Natasha,” Wanda says on Saturday morning.

“I mean, when it comes to selfcare, Wanda would be the leading expert. I’m still struggling to keep water down,” Natasha jokes sardonically.

We both stare at her.

“Sorry,” she says and makes a face. " _Tough crowd_."

After Thursday morning, I’d cycled straight home and spent the rest of the day crying and burning my fingertips on the wicks of candles. I’d locked my door behind me and Thor had had the good sense to leave me alone after being unable to open it. It had been Natasha who found me, and she was not deterred by a locked door. She had been ready to break it down when I flicked my wrist and it unlocked itself. We’d spent the evening crafting nonsense emails to my lecturers about needing a mental health day and requesting my work be sent to me. All of them had understood. I’d hated myself. When I woke up yesterday morning, however, I’d been grateful.

That evening, Wanda had been adamant about coming over, but Natasha, who knew our friend by now, had told her no and tasked Pietro with keeping his sister home. Natasha came over again and we did not talk, but instead she’d demanded I work on her energy realignment while we listened to PVRIS very loudly. When Thor came in to tell us to turn it down, Natasha threw her sneaker and it hit him square in the face. He’d lost his footing and I’d telekinetically locked the door again. Neither of us had felt much like eating, which caused me to cry again, as I felt I was enabling Natasha’s eating disorder.

“Loki, you can’t keep crying like this,” she’d said, sternly. “You’re dehydrating and if you dehydrate, I’ll be forced to leave the room and face your dipshit brother and I do not have it in me tonight. I’m fine. You’re not enabling anything.”

She had then taken a packet of trail mix from her backpack and tossed about half of it into her mouth. A moment later, the packet was empty and she looked positively green, but kept it down.

Why can’t I possess that kind of strength?

Today, however, is game day. We’d promised Pietro and Clint we’d be there and I still had to make those banana protein shakes for them to give the captains. My face is a mess, though, and so I was strongly considering just making the shakes and having the girls take them to the game without me. That’s when Natasha had left the room to make a phone call and half an hour later she’d returned with Wanda.

“Look, if you can fix this mess,” I say, gesturing vaguely at my face, “I’ll give up magic forever.”

“You set far too much stock by it,” Wanda says, zipping open her makeup bag. “Natasha, we need lots of coffee and toast. Can I trust you with that?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Natasha responds, smirking at Wanda appreciatively.

Wanda really is irresistible when she takes charge like this.

Most of the morning is spent huddled on my bed with various balms and salves being applied to my face. At some point, Nat mixes avocado and olive oil together with some of the coconut milk from the fridge and Wanda applies that to all of our faces. Then, we lay side by side on my bed with slices of cucumber over our eyes and Wanda tells us about Bruce Banner, her version of Nat’s Tony.

He is far more psychological than Tony, it seems. He does not outright criticise Wanda, but rather always has an ace in the hole and beats her out for assignment ideas every time. He is so charming in his awkwardness and ego-fluffery that all their lecturers love him, and Wanda’s hard work is often deemed unnecessary, because she never reaches Bruce’s level, anyway. The lecturers ask her why she even bothers. She claims his level of originality to boarder on cheating and says she’s conducting a secret investigation into which lecturer or teacher’s assistant he’s buttering up in order to get his intel.

“Well, I don’t know what you did, Loki, but Tony’s been leaving me alone for about a week now. Besides the paranoia, I’ve actually been functioning better in class,” Nat says.

I do not respond. I do not want to risk crying again.

When the masks come off, Wanda sends both Natasha and I for a shower. I go first. The hot water burns my fingertips especially, but the burn treatment I apply afterwards helps soothe that. I know Wanda saw it and so did Natasha, but neither of them are saying anything. Back in my room, while I am still wrapped in a towel, Wanda sends Natasha into the en suite and sits me back on the bed. She applies anti-bacterial ointment over the burn treatment and tapes up all my fingertips wordlessly. She then leaves the room for me to get dressed. The clothes laid out on the bed are precious and definitely event-appropriate – especially the knitted school jumper. I smile to myself and pull them on. Lacing my sneakers is a mission I fail at, but Natasha re-enters the room and helps me. Then, she shoos me out to get dressed, as well.

I find Wanda in the kitchen, unpacking the ingredients for the protein shakes onto the counter. She looks up when she notices me and smiles at me without reservation.

“You look so cute!” she exclaims, coming around the island to see all of me. “The black always looks stunning on you, but the blue and the silver are so lovely with your skin tone.”

I blush and drop my head.

“Loki, do you own a flat iron?” pipes up Natasha from my bedroom door, only her head peeking round the doorjamb.

Her hair is dry now, but it curls gorgeously around her face. The curls compliment her freckles and her eyes in a new, beautiful way.

“He does not anymore,” Wanda answers, eyes on Natasha in a way I’ve never seen her look at anyone. “Leave it curly, Natasha. You are beautiful.”

Natasha blushes, as well, but she’s too busy staring at Wanda to be embarrassed. So, clearly, my ignorance has struck again. I could smack myself on the forehead in frustration.

When Natasha retreats into my room and shuts the door, I spin back to Wanda so fast I almost go sprawling.

“Shut up,” she says before I even have my mouth open.

“But, Wanda…”

“Leave me, Loki. She IS beautiful,” Wanda emphasises, beginning to mix the protein shakes.

“I am not disagreeing with you. I just had no idea you felt this way about her,” I say, stifling my awkwardness for now.

“This does not surprise me. You miss a lot, living in that head of yours,” she says.

“Fair. Are you going to ask her out?” I ask, going over to help her.

“Who’s asking who out?” comes a breathy voice from across the room.

We both look up at the same time. From Thor’s room comes his little female plaything in nothing but lingerie. She walks to the kitchen like she owns the place and heads straight for the fridge. Wanda and I share a look and then she goes back to mixing.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” I clear my throat and say, sarcastically.

She pokes her birdlike face around the refrigerator door and smiles sultrily, holding out a hand to me. I take it and shake it lightly.

“Jane Foster. I teach astrophysics at the University. You must be Loki,” she says, a wedding band unmistakeably glimmering on her left hand.

“Yes…”

“So, you kids headed to the lacrosse game today?” she asks, takes my homemade green iced-tea out and drinks straight from the bottle.

My mouth drops open in shock. Wanda glares at her and accidentally spills some of the shake powder on the countertop.

“We are,” Wanda answers, my mouth not working.

“Well, have fun! This is always an easy game for us, but the other team tries really hard to intimidate us, anyway,” she says, waltzing back to Thor’s room.

Wanda and I look at each other again. She rolls her eyes and I burst out laughing. This causes her to laugh, as well, and Natasha to exit my room frowning. She’d left her hair curly, as per Wanda’s request, and only put on a school hat.

Next, I have them both help me my mix my little concoction for the protein shakes. Both of them express concern at the intensity of the effects of the potion, but I assure them that it will not impact either man dangerously. It is only meant to make them more susceptible to persuasion. I’ve slipped my parents this potion enough times to know it like the back of my hand by now.

The last hour before we leave, I paint the girls’ faces. Wanda wants a school flag painted on her right cheek and Natasha wants her entire face painted, so I paint it one half blue and the other silver. I do a decent job of both, though Clint may have been the better option for Wanda’s school flag. Wanda braids a blue and a silver ribbon into my hair, along with some of the tiny flowers I keep a box of on my windowsill.

We take our car, letting Natasha park her motorcycle in the garage. On the drive there, we listen to the school radio-station and its sad attempt at “hype” music. Mostly, we laugh. Thursday does plague me, but I smother it at every juncture. Not today. I will allow myself sadness and self-pity again tomorrow.

Finding parking is nearly impossible, but I manage quite an impressive parallel park in an illegal spot near the front gates. The car park guard says he’ll let it slide, because there really is no other parking.

The field appears wet and muddy and I am once again grateful I am not partial to sports. We sneak around the backs of the stands to the locker rooms. Once there, Wanda texts Pietro, who comes dashing out in a blur. We hand him the bag of uniforms and the protein shakes. He looks infinitely grateful, kisses his sister and then disappears back inside. We go in search of coffee and seats.

As we ascend the steps to a space near the top, I hear a familiar voice off to my left. It is Tony, talking to another man who is equally tanned, but rather introverted-looking. I watch as Tony gesticulates wildly with his hands, as he always does in the thick of a good story. His friend spots me staring and frowns, causing Tony to turn and look at me. I give him a small smile and a nod of greeting. He pays me the same courtesy.

The proceedings begin. I immediately understand what everyone meant when they said that the other school likes its fanfare. They brought their cheerleaders and banners and music and there is a section of the stands reserved for only their fans. It feels proper eventful and festive. We cry laughing when their mascot, a leprechaun, tries to pick a fight with our mascot, a Eurasian lynx, but goes sprawling when ours turns to meet theirs. The lynx’s tail had knocked the leprechaun clean off their feet. Owning it, the lynx goes dancing down the length of the field, crowd cheering it on. I am having so much fun, I barely notice when I burn my tongue on the hot latte Natasha had gotten me. However, I do notice when Natasha discreetly takes the hand Wanda was resting on the seat beside her. Wanda smiles a little, but makes no further acknowledgement.

As far as heartache and missed opportunities go, this is not so bad. It is not as if anything has changed between me and Wanda, and with everything she’s done for me, I want her to be happy. If that means being with Nat, then I definitely want that for her. Also, I won’t lie: the two of them are the sexiest couple I have ever seen. Thor and Sif had been something once upon a time, but no one comes close to these two.

Also, I had wanted to be something with Sif once upon a time, but let’s not bring that up, shall we?

After our displays of school spirit, it is time for the game to start and the teams come roaring onto the field, ripping through banners. Clint and Pietro head straight onto the field, while two others take their places on the bench. Steve and Bucky give each of the benchwarmers one of the bottles in which we had made the protein shakes. Wanda, Nat and I have a good laugh. The whistle blows and the game begins.

Clint’s knack for goal scoring quickly earns him popularity with the rest of the team. What really gives us an edge, though, is Pietro. I have never seen someone that fast in my life. He runs circles around everyone else. Pretty soon, it appears only to be Clint and Pietro playing the game. Everyone else comes nowhere near being a match for either of them.

Wanda and Natasha scream themselves hoarse, cheering their brothers on. I yell, too, but they drown me out. When the whistle blows again, signalling half-time, we are up fifteen goals to nil. Wanda and Nat embrace furiously. As I watch, Wanda kisses Natasha full on the mouth, but only for a moment. The look on Nat’s face afterwards is one I will never forget.

A skirmish at the edge of the field attracts my attention. Some players from both teams appear to be fighting. Thankfully, Clint and Pietro are nowhere near there – until they are, running closer to see what they can do to help. A player from each of the teams suddenly goes flying and out from behind them comes…

 _Oh my gods_.

“ _Where is my brother?!_ ” the drunken oaf screams at the top of his lungs, in English.

I shut my eyes. Oh, please, please, _PLEASE_ let this be some sort of sick trick of the mind. I feel fingers on my hand, familiar enough only to belong to Wanda. I let her take my hand, my eyes still closed. But then I’m being tugged at and my eyes fly open.

“Loki, get down. Do not let him see you. Let security take care of him,” Wanda hisses, eyes on Thor, as she pulls me to the ground.

I am just about to oblige when he spots me. I genuinely mean it when I say I want to die.

“Brother!” he says at the top of his voice. “Or should I say “sister”? Seeing as you appear to keep only female company and let them dictate your wardrobe choices.”

Distantly, I wonder if his new little American plaything has been teaching him English.

I look round, like everyone else, to keep the attention off myself.

“Father is on his way, brother. He and Mother have received word that I have been inebriated in class. I know you ratted me out, you snivelling weasel. So, you go down with me,” he declares.

Steve and Bucky attempt to escort him off the field, what with being closer to his stature. Two well aimed swings later and both men are on the ground and Thor is back to his soliloquy.

“I see your friends trying to shield you, brother. They cannot keep you from Father!” he calls.

“Who is this degenerate’s brother? Can you just take him home, please?” someone in the crowd yells.

“Loki. Loki _Laufyson_ is my brother. He might be posing as someone else these days, to hide himself from the disgrace he deems his family is, but he is my brother and we are going home,” Thor thunders.

The next moment, Pietro and Clint dive him to the ground. Too stunned, for a moment, to move, Clint pins him down and Pietro aims for a sucker punch that knocks him out instantly. Somewhere, I’d started crying and had risen to my feet. Wanda is still clinging to my hand, tears washing away the flag I’d painted for her earlier. I force my eyes shut, force the image from my mind, force myself to cease existing – force whoever told on my idiotic, immature brother to die instantly where they stand.

Warm fingers on my face, wiping away my tears. My eyes fly open, revealing Tony, looking practically murderous. He dries my face and then motions for Nat and Wanda to follow him in escorting me away. Once on the field, Bucky, Steve, Pietro and Clint all carry Thor after us. We head through the entrance and out to my car, but do not get that far.

In between us and our destination is my father, looking calmer – and thus angrier – than I have ever seen him. Some sick part of me wishes he’d strike me down there and then, just so I can have a reason to scream and never stop. Instead, he escorts us to his chauffeured vehicle, has Thor loaded onto the backseat and instructs me to follow them back to our apartment.

I give all my friends a parting look, but cannot bear to meet eyes with Tony. I hope he can forgive me. Wanda rushes to hug me and I wrap her in my arms as tightly as I can without hurting her.

“ _Ya tebe lyublyu_ ,” she sobs.

Without knowing how I know, I respond: “I love you, too.”

 

**Scene Four**

I do not remember. Something with a private airplane and a confession and a hoarse, tearful apology. Really, it was such a mess that I probably will not be able to make sense of it, even with all the information. It matters not. Odin has forbidden us to speak of it again and locked us each in our rooms. I am bedbound once again, as I have not been for many years. Three times a day, one of the staff comes in and helps me eat and drink, because my left arm is in a sling and my right hand is a charred mess. I have one functioning eye, while the other is wrapped up to heal. My legs are battered and bruised and my ribs are making breathing a fresh agony.

Speaking of eating, it occurs through a straw, as my jaw was dislocated and relocated for “lying and conspiring”. Thankfully, I was allowed all my teeth this time. However, quite creatively, both my eyes were blackened for how much I loved painting them “like a harlot witch”. Crying causes them pain, so I’ve been repressing tears like never before.

I have not seen Thor in two weeks. I expect him to be in a bad way, as well. This would be a massive shock to him, because he has never been at the receiving end of Odin’s fury. That is how I refer to them now: Odin and Frigga. They are no parents of mine. Parents do not beat their children broken and bloody. Mothers do not stand idly by while fathers treat their children like disobedient beasts. As far as I am concerned, I have no family. I never did. I am so depressed that if I was not too incapacitated to move, I will surely have thrown myself out of my third storey window and succumbed to my wounds.

My bedroom door opens. It is dinner time, which also means time for my daily bath. This time, Frigga comes in with the woman. She smiles at me brightly and I fight the bile back down that is threatening to push its way up throat.

“Loki! You look better and better every day,” she says, clapping her hands together.

I avert my working eye.

“I have come bearing great tidings! The University was so impressed with your progress thus far, that they are willing to grant you access to the next semester without examinations. You can go back in the new year!” she says, insincerity dripping from every syllable.

I do not respond. I am waiting for the bargain.

“Your father is even willing to let you go back, as you were not the one to cause the scene. As long as you agree to his initial terms. Dear,” Frigga says in her gentlest motherly voice, “you can go back and be with your friends again. Do not jeopardise this for yourself, I implore you.”

 _I will not be going back_ , I intend to say.

 _I will not be jeopardising my own sanity_ , I intend to continue.

 _He is not my father_ , I mean to snarl.

“Leave,” I manage, tears of pain and exertion springing to my eyes.

The softness falls from her face, replaced by an ugly mask of woe.

“I am trying to help you, Loki. I exist not to make your life miserable, child. Why must you always fight me? Fight us?” she cries.

The house woman props me up to wash me. I gasp in pain and gnash my teeth together, which causes me further discomfort and so I close my eyes for a moment.

“Leave,” I repeat.

By the time I reopen them, she’s gone.

The bath and meal are swallowed by exhaustion very quickly. Despair is infinitely draining and I spend most of my time in slumber, for at least in dreams I am afforded some reprieve from my waking nightmare. The only way I have found of keeping track of time’s passage is with meals and my uncovered window.

Another week passes and the swelling on my jaw has subsided a great deal. My injured eye is unbandaged and functional, albeit a bit fuzzy. I can stand and walk by myself, but still not feed myself, as my one arm is still casted and the other hand is still healing and has probably suffered severe nerve damage. My biggest regret is that my piano days are likely forever behind me. I spend most of my time sitting on the ledge of my big bay window, staring off at the town in the distance, down the mountain. I amuse myself by making up stories about the cars coming from or headed there.

I feel myself slowly descend into madness.

It is one such day, lounging in the windowsill as I do, that I witness something no one should ever have to see.

“ _Thor, please?!_ ” comes her screams through the walls. The cavernous nature of all the spaces makes it sound as if her pleas are coming from everywhere at once.

I see him standing, then, on the ledge of his window, his body bruised far worse than mine. Both his arms are bound, as well as his right leg. On top of it all, his masses of corn silk hair have been shorn off. Unable to open my window, I cry for him through the glass.

“ _BROTHER!_ ” I scream. “THOR, _PLEASE_?!”

“Loki!” he cries back, looking nowhere but down. “I am sorry, Loki! I should have been a better brother to you. You of all people never deserved my defiance and mockery. I love you!”

I cannot tear my eyes away. I cannot shut them. I cannot block it out. It appears to come to me as if I am right there on the ground beside him –

the sound of his neck breaking on impact.

The sound of my brother dying.

As he fell, so dropped the last of my resolve.

I never stop wailing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly sorry. However, I did promise you a happy end. It is coming, I promise. If I had written in canon AU, this is how I would have written Thor. He and Loki deserve to be loving siblings. Odin and subservient Frigga are the problem - not Thor. Sorry, fam.


	5. Act Five: What Won't Be/Valhalla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW//
> 
> Death  
> Alcohol  
> Sex

**Scene One**

A proper disgrace. That’s what they made of Thor’s funeral. It was impersonal, formal, nondescript and soulless. Odin and Frigga did not even allow Sif and the boys to come see their friend off. I have never been more disgusted in my life. It is as if his parents did not love or know him at all. We have no extended family and so it was only Frigga, Odin and the staff who attended the small ceremony held outside the family crypt in the backyard. I fought it down the entire service – the overwhelming urge to throw myself over Thor’s casket and shriek my grievances until I, too, join him in the crypt.

They blame me. Odin and Frigga lay Thor’s death at my feet. If it had not been for my pig-headed clinging to a pointless notion (their words), Thor would not have needed to accompany me to the university in the first place. Naturally, it can never be their fault. They are the perfect parents. How could anything they have done possibly affect Thor in this way? It is as if they believe Thor to be as blind to my childhood suffering as Frigga. They are too self-righteous and self-absorbed to see how fundamentally they have fucked their children up.

Admittedly, however, I do blame myself for Thor’s death. I blame myself for being so wrapped up in my own nonsense this past semester that I did not see my poor brother struggling so hard with his overwhelming independence. He was involved with a married woman, for goodness’ sake. A woman I attempted to contact to invite to the funeral, but she would not answer my calls or respond to any of the text messages I’d sent from Thor’s phone. Probably back with her husband now. Thor was her plaything all along.

“Loki, I am so sorry,” Wanda says, over the phone. “I blame myself, in part. I knew there was something very wrong with him, but I was too wrapped up in hating him on your behalf that I ignored the warning signs.”

“Just…It is not about us. It is about Thor. I wish everyone would see that. We may as well have buried a dead cat in the garden for all the care we took. My parents’ golden child and still his death is treated as nothing more than another appointment in Odin’s overflowing schedule,” I say, hunched over in the corner of my dusky room.

“Callous people, your parents. People like them should not have children,” Wanda opines.

I sigh. I still feel like screaming. I sometimes activate the silencing sigils I had painted onto my walls years ago and let myself wail and rage and break down. If I do not give into the grief, I fear it will consume me – and I am certain Thor would not want that for me. Not when he himself was always so lively.

“ _Kokhannya_ , we can take the train and be there in a few days, if you need us,” she offers.

“It’s alright. I’ll be alright. You all have exams and things. Focus on them. I will be fine,” I say, but I sound so utterly unconvincing that I start crying again.

“Call me any time, alright?” she says. “Promise me.”

“ _Ya obitsyayu,_ ” I say, my voice steady despite the unending torrent of tears.

I can hear her smile over the phone.

“ _Ya tebe lyublyu_ ,” she says.

“ _Ya tebe lyublyu_ ,” I reciprocate.

I rest my head on my pulled up knees and just let the tears run freely, soaking through my jeans. I am aware of my impending dehydration, because I feel like the last time I consumed anything was half a glass of water at Thor’s pretend-funeral – a week ago. I have not been hungry in the meantime, either, and so am probably starving, but I am not yet aware of any signs to indicate that.

I am just so incredibly tired. I want to sleep forever, but Frigga and Odin have been keeping such close watch of me that the moment I fall asleep, they barrel in to check I haven’t consumed the medicine cabinet. At night, I sleep with one of the staff in my room with me. This is not because of Thor, but because the church had sent its resident therapist out to us for grief counselling and he had diagnosed me with depression and PTSD – funnily enough, not from watching my brother jump to his death. Odin would be shocked to learn that flaying a child to within an inch of their life can have psychological effects on the child.

“ _We will see them, Frigga!_ ” comes a very familiar voice from just outside my bedroom door.

The next second, the door springs open and ricochets off the wall behind it. In strides Sif, Volstagg, Fandral and Hogun, with Frigga tumbling in after them. It had been Sif who had yelled at her. She always was the fiercest of the bunch.

“Loki, you are coming with us. No more of this wallowing. Thor would never have condoned it,” says Sif, striding over to me, hand outstretched.

Her wily wood nymph hair is especially mane-like today and her clothes appear as if she has been climbing trees again. This is an old habit of hers. Volstagg’s beard looks in desperate need of some maintenance and Fandral looks like he’s been doing nothing but drinking for the past week. The most put-together of the bunch, as always, is Hogun, who just looks tired. He and I have that in common, however my appearance mostly matches Fandral’s, I’m sure.

“If you go with them, your father will be incredibly upset, Loki. You have just managed to heal all the way. _See reason?_ ” Frigga pleads.

“How can I fear an upset father, when I have no father?” I ask Sif, taking her hand and letting her pull me to my feet.

“A revelatory question,” she comments, eyeing Frigga curiously.

“We may even be able to spare Odin some great trouble by taking some of your belongings with us,” Fandral reasons.

“Fair point, Fandral,” I say and head to my cupboard.

“Mixter Loki?” one of the house women says and hands me my duffle.

I thank her and set about packing enough clothes for a week. Sif comes to help me. Reflexively, I want to send her away, for fear of ridicule, but instead she hands me a skirt or two and even my favourite jumper: a black, knitted one with big pink and red flowers embroidered on it.

“You cannot do this,” Frigga says, though it is unclear whether it is me or Sif with whom she is speaking.

“I can and I will,” I answer, regardless. “I have had enough. I will not go down the same road as Thor. You drove him to death – you will not do the same to me. Not after the kind of sacrifice he made just to escape you.”

I hear her gasp, wounded at my words. The glee I always expected to feel is not there now. Instead, I feel determined and free, for the first time in my life.

“You are a cruel and ungrateful boy, Loki,” she forces out.

“They are none of that,” inserts Sif. “That is where you have always been wrong, Frigga. Loki is the best of us. You are so determined to make of them trophy children that you forget they are human-beings first and foremost. To Thor, you always gave enough attention to smother him and then leave him flopping like a beached fish when you are not there to maintain the chokehold. Loki, on the other hand, only ever wanted your love and support, but they were only noticed when Odin needed a punching bag. You broke your children’s spirits by being an absolutely absent mother. You still have a chance to make up for it, by letting Loki go. You never have to see them again.”

Never had Sif regarded Frigga with anything other than respect. This leaves Frigga stunned and reactionless.

I finish my packing and Hogun takes my duffle, while I take my knapsack. Without any resistance, we are soon out the front door and tramping up the mountain, into the woods.

It is quiet for our walk. I doubt anyone really has the energy to make much conversation. I am too drained and miserable to question the sudden allegiance of Thor’s friends. I just hope that wherever we are going, there is still cell service. Wanda will surely teleport here if I miss so much as one of her phone calls or text messages.

We stop farther up the mountain than I have ever been. In front of us is a wooden cottage, looking for all intents and purposes like a holiday cabin. There is a slight scuffle over who has the keys, but Volstagg finds it on his person and lets us all inside.

“Is this the cottage Thor built?” I ask Sif, stepping in behind her.

The inside is spacious, but cosy, and beautifully decorated. ‘Luxury’ describes this place perfectly. There is a fire burning in the stone hearth, though I do not remember seeing smoke rising from the chimney, and the heat has filled the inside space. Everyone kicks off their boots and I follow suit.

“Yes,” answers Sif, smiling to herself. “We helped, of course, but this was his project. I reckon this was where he felt most free. He always said that one day he would simply disappear and come live up here by himself.”

I smile as well. The simple life would have suited Thor – as little responsibility as possible. My poor brother. My poor, miserable, dead brother. What a bloody waste.

A single tear escapes and runs its way down my face. I make no move to stop it. Sif sees and comes over to fold me into an embrace.

“Loki, I’m so sorry. I’m so incredibly sorry about everything. You must understand: we never had any idea of Odin’s violent nature. He kept it well under wraps whenever we were present,” she says, her voice full of tears now, as well.

I pull away from her and address the room at large.

“I do not blame any of you. Our paths may have diverged, but I know that was more my fault than yours. You were good friends to Thor. He was lucky to have had you.”

“He sent us a message before…” Fandral says, eyes glazed over and blind to the world. “In it, he requested we be there for you. He blamed himself for alienating you, when you were only ever there for him. It was his parting wish that we mend ties with you.”

I sigh deeply, tired all over again.

“None of you need feel obligated,” I murmur. I run my hand through my hair in exasperated depression.

“No, you misunderstand,” puts in Hogun. “If you had been surrounded by people who loved and cared for you – if we had kept you as out and occupied as we had Thor – if we had tried harder instead of just ostracising you when you came into your own – then maybe you would not have been at Odin’s mercy so much. We blame ourselves. We are your friends, too.”

Everyone’s eyes are on me now. Regret and sincerity are on all their faces. Sif and I join the men in the lounge. I end up next to Volstagg, who throws his massive arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a tight side-embrace.

“Thank you,” I manage, finally.

This idea that I have been toying with since the pretend-funeral comes to me again. I just have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that Thor would love it. He would want his life to be celebrated, not his death mourned. My lively brother would want fanfare and alcohol and laughter.

Taking a shuddering breath, I voice my plan to the others. By the end, all of us are smiling. We agree to go that evening. Sif knows where Thor kept a spare key for his jeep. I also know my parents will both be out at some kind of benefit dinner this evening, for which they are taking the helicopter. Our path is clear.

Hours later, we are on the beach of a lake far from home. I have had at least half a bottle of vodka. Even Hogun has had a few and looks rather unsteady. The soberest of us is Fandral, who said he has celebrated enough the past week. He is leading the procession.

We haul the body out of the jeep and place it on the floating pyre we have constructed. Sif pulls the tarp away and kisses him once on the forehead. I do the same, my tears falling onto his face. I try not to notice the decomposition. Once he is secure, we all take turns to dump some of our drinks onto him and the pyre. Then we all push him out to the water. In silence, we watch him float farther and farther out. When he’s so far out that it becomes hard to judge where he ends and the pyre begins in the waning light, Hogun lets fly a flaming arrow. It lodges into the pyre and the entire thing lights up, flames licking at the sky. We all take turns to say what we loved most about him. It turns into us swopping stories and soon enough we are all holding our stomachs from laughter. Then, Sif lets loose with the music. I finish the rest of my bottle of vodka and dance until I cannot stand any longer. I lose consciousness at some point, but not before I notice a particularly bright star in the sky above me.

_Go in peace, brother. You are loved and revered._

 

**Scene Two**

I am at my apartment at least two weeks before the commencement of the new semester. I have told no one this, however. I needed some time to clean it out and box Thor’s things. As much as I would have liked to keep a sense of him about the place, it is far too morbid. He is among the stars now and he deserves to be untethered. What I do allow myself, is to burn incense that reminds me of his scent. Ice and earth and wood smoke.

“Loki?” says Wanda, as I join them for lunch.

“Hello, family,” I say and take a seat next to Clint in the spot under the tree that someone cleared for us.

“Good to see you, buddy,” he says and leans over for a hug.

I wrap my arms around him tightly. It is so incredibly good to be back. Christmas in the cottage with Sif and the boys had been lovely and I’d felt safe and happy, but Thor was still there. Here, with my friends, I finally feel light enough to breathe properly.

“Have a good Christmas?” Natasha asks, laying with her head in Wanda’s lap. She looks so good! Her hair is curly, her cheeks are full, her eyes are bright behind her glasses and her smile is radiant. So much healthier than when I last saw her.

“Lovely, thank you. I spent it with some friends from home, in a cottage in the mountains. You?”

“Mom fed me until I literally passed out sitting up. Clint had to carry me to our room. It was a bit tough going there for a bit, but eventually I managed to keep meals down. Wanda helps,” she recounts, staring lovingly up at Wanda who smiles down at her.

“As happy as we all are for you, I might lose my lunch from exposure to so much sappiness.”

“I was wondering where you were. Didn’t see you in class this morning,” Natasha says – to Tony.

He takes a seat between Clint and Pietro. I stare open-mouthed and Pietro, being the first to spot me, laughs.

“You will not believe who else is joining us,” he says. He looks over his shoulder at something behind me. Turning around, I see Steve and his Bucky headed our way, their gloved hands clasped between them.

“Eventually, I’ll get Bruce to join us, too,” Tony says. “He’s just a little suspicious of you, is all."

“He better be. I am onto him,” Wanda says, good-naturedly.

“Listen, as charming as it is out here in the snow, how about we all head to the nutrition centre and have some soup?” Steve suggests.

“Soup sounds amazing right now,” I say.

So, that’s what we do. While we walk, I catch up a bit with Wanda, but I start feeling quite like a third-wheel and so let her and Natasha lose themselves in each other. They both look so smitten, it really is quite nauseating.

“Hello, gorgeous,” comes his voice from my right.

Hands in his pockets and snow cap on his head, he looks like he walked off the pages of a fashion magazine. I want to bury myself in the snow.

“Hello, Tony.”

“Good Christmas?” he asks, eyes ahead.

“Great, thanks. You?” I ask, eyes on him.

“Less great, but pretty on par with every other year. I was really sorry to hear about your brother,” he says, takes his hand out of his pocket and wraps it around mine.

I twine my fingers with his.

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I say.

We walk in silence for a while, until the nutrition centre is suddenly in full view. Everyone heads inside, but Tony keeps me back with our clasped hands. Wanda and Natasha promise to save us seats and soup.

“Look, Loki, I get it, okay? I have no idea what it’s like to be you, so I can’t imagine what I put you through, but I get why you said no to me, if only elementarily,” he says, once we’re alone.

“No, Tony. It’s my own stupidity. I should have just explained to you, but I had so many hang-ups back then that even stringing two words together around you took me about two months to manage,” I reply.

“So, you do like me back? Did, anyway?” he asks, his gaze boring into me.

“Did, anyway,” I echo, smirking.

“I see how it is. You heartbreaker,” he quips, smirking back.

I laugh at that. “Loki, the heartbreaker” is a title behind which I can get.

“I learnt from the best,” I say, suggestively.

“I mean, you’re an excellent student,” Tony responds.

“You’re an excellent teacher,” I respond.

As much as I am absolutely crazy about this man, I decide to follow my instincts this time, rather than let my heart run away with me again. Nothing good ever comes from letting your emotions rule you.

“Tony, I feel like we should take some time to get to know each other this time around,” I hold.

“Agreed,” he says, immediately. “I know almost nothing about you, which is my fault. I just let my h–”

“…heart run away with you?” I finish for him.

“Exactly,” he breathes.

I honestly have no idea how it happened. Literally not a single one. I was staring into his eyes like blackholes, stealing all the light from the world until he was the only beacon in the universe. Next thing I know, our mouths are tantalisingly close to each other and I cannot breathe and am suddenly impossibly hot.

“Tony,” I gasp.

He murmurs acknowledgement, but it’s too late. We kiss like we are each other’s sources of oxygen. My fingers knot in the back of his hair, while his explore my hips, pulling them toward him.

“Oh my God,” yells Pietro and we jump apart. “We leave you alone for ten minutes. I hope you losers know that there is no more soup or bread.”

“Noted,” Tony calls in response, his eyes glued to my mouth.

“I meant it, Tony,” I say to him, pushing his hands away.

“Meant what?” he says and then he shakes his head like he’s clearing it of water. “Right. Getting to know each other. Sorry.”

“Watch yourself, Stark,” I say and head inside.

“I mean, I’d rather watch you,” he says, following.

“Do not objectify me. It is beneath you,” I throw over my shoulder.

“Yes, dear.”

 

**Scene Three**

“No! Tony, what is the point of asking me to help you study, if you do not pay attention?” I ask, leaned back into my pillows.

“I just wanted to see you tonight. I know all the work. This stuff is stupid easy,” he says, leaning over me.

“This is mechatronics. I have never seen anything more complicated. I will not be complicit to your failing,” I say, but smile, anyway.

“Okay. Fair. Then let’s forget the studying for a minute,” he says, his voice low and breathy.

The last semester has flown by. I have not spoken a single word to Odin and Frigga in all this time. Sif and the boys have come to visit about three times, and they get on swimmingly with my friends here. So much so that Pietro actually asked me for Sif’s number after the last time they were here. Sif would eat him alive, but I decided not to doom it before it has had its day.

Tony has behaved, by and large. I mean, as much as I have, which is quite a lot. There was that one time he showed me his robotics lab and we ended up making out on one of the work tables. Oh, and the time we’d both had too much to drink at Wanda and Pietro’s – which was during one of the Norway gang’s visits, if I recall correctly and I’m sure I am – and had a rather heated grope session in the bathroom. But, for the most part, we have kept it together and worked on our relationship.

I’ve learned that Tony has never had sex with anyone of male biology while coherent. He has learnt that I have never had sex with anyone at all, but has commented that I seem to be rather talented regardless. We haven’t done the deed yet, but, like I said, it’s been touch and go there a few times. I’ve learnt that he’s never actually dated anyone, and he’s learnt that we have that in common. I’ve learnt that the reason he used to be so horrible to Natasha was because he felt threatened by her, because he is almost certain she’s smarter than he is. He learnt that magic is, in fact, entirely real and has asked me to teach him. I have learnt that he is about the most faithless person I have ever met and will probably never manage magic. I have not told him this.

“You came here with the full intention of seducing me, did you not?” I ask, tucking my thumbs into the waistband of his jeans.

“You see straight through me, gorgeous. You always have,” Tony says, leaning down to kiss me.

I take him in entirely, inhaling his scent and forcing his lips apart with my tongue. He exhales heavily. Before ending the kiss, I suck on his bottom lip a bit. He moans low in his throat.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“For once, just shut up and kiss me,” I say.

We go at it, then. Our hands explore every inch of each other they can find and our clothes appear to melt away in the process. I flip us over, so I am on top of him. He is as stunning as I always imagined, all muscle and deep golden skin and flawlessness. I kiss down his chest, leaving hickeys every other kiss. He always rises into them, his entire body shaking.

When I reach the waistband of his underwear, I sink my teeth into the skin there. His hips buck up and a strangled moan escapes him. I move up quickly to kiss him again. He pulls me against him, hard. I can feel him through my underwear and have to resist the urge to go overboard.

He takes control again, pinning me to the bed and letting his fingers travel downwards. I pull him down to me, deepening our kiss. Instead, his lips latch onto my neck, his tongue toying with my erratically pulsing jugular. I almost do not notice his hand clenching around me under my underwear.

He starts sliding his hand gently up and down, agonising slowly and with not nearly enough grip to cause sufficient friction. I want to tell him just to take me. No more holding back now. We’ve been good for months now. No more.

“Tony,” I say.

“I’m being a total jackass, I know. You’re just so beautiful like this. I’m just…enjoying the scenery,” he says.

“I’ll send you photos at some point. Can we pick it up now, though?” I ask.

“I’m holding you to that,” he says.

Then, I am being worked hard enough to rip a moan from me. I fumble his underwear off and make to get under him – right as his teeth sink into my neck. I make probably the most unflattering noise I have ever made then, but it’s just so good. I feel it all the way into my toes. If he keeps this up, we won’t even get to the actual sex. I’ll just lose it all over his hand.

I open my eyes to find him positioning himself to push into me. With my eyes alone, I reassure him that it is alright. He goes slowly, which makes my eyes roll back into my head. I may also have whimpered, but I am leaving that as a certainty only for Tony.

When he starts thrusting into me, it’s as if I do not touch the bed anymore. I am floating somewhere near the ceiling, my nerves crackling with numbing electricity. My hands find his sides to hold onto and the rhythmic movement of his muscles hypnotises me further. At some point, he reaches over to pull me up into a kiss. He thrusts harder, then, and a powerful shiver wracks my entire body. I unconsciously bite down. 

It’s when I taste the blood that I realise I’ve split his lip. I pull back to inspect the damage, but he kisses me harder. The salty taste of blood mixed with saliva is an experience all its own. I suck harder on the cut and he picks up the pace. Before I have a chance to savour it, I am practically spraying across our stomachs. He comes as I do, our moans mixed together in the most beautiful harmony.

“Tony?” I say, a moment later, while we both are splayed across the bed, amongst his study things.

“Yes, dear?” he says, taking my hand.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” I ask him, closing my eyes to let this moment sink into my bones forever.

He has a smile in his voice when he answers.

“I would love that.”

“What, no witty remark?”

“I can’t think straight when I’m with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking it out with me!! Sequel coming soon!!! xx


End file.
